UC-NRLF 


B    M    Dbl    73T 


OURNAL 


Maurice  de  Guerin 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


FROM   THt   LIBRARY   OV 

BENJAMIN  PARKE  AVERY. 


Gift  of  Mrs.  avert. 

Aug-ust,  i8q6.  y 

Accessions  No.  In  ^'J^^n      Class  No.   * 


1 


i 


ll^(f.    ClM^ 


^r 


IN    PREPARATION. 


THE 
LETTERS    AND   LTTERARYREMAINS 

OF 

f     MAURICE   DE   GUERIN. 

TRANSLATED  BY 

E.    THORNTON    FISHER. 

Uniform  with  this   Volume. 


THE    JOURNAL 


OF 


Maurice    de   Guerin 


WITH  AN  ESS  A  Y  BY  MA  TTHE  W  ARNOLD, 
AND  A  MEMOIR  BY  SAINTE-BEUVE 


EDITED     BY 


G.     S.  vT^R-BlB^U  T  I  E  N 


TRANSLATED     BY 

EDWARD     THORNTON     FISHER 

Professor  of  English   Language  and  Literature 
at  the  Brooklyn  Polytechnic  Institute 


m 


NEW    YORK 

LEYPOLDT    &     HOLT 

1867 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  186G,  by 

LEY FOLD T    &    HOLT, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States 

for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


JOHN   K.   TROW   &    CO., 

PRINTERS,  STEREOTYPERS,  ff  ELECTROTYPEES, 

50    GUEENE    STREET,     N.Y. 


CONTENTS 


I.   Essay  on  the   Life  and  Genius  of  Maurice    de   Guerin, 

by  Matthew  Arnold,       .  .  .  .  .1 

II.   Preface  to  the  Original  Edition,  by  G.  S.  Trebutien,  13 

III.  Memoir  of  Maurice  de  Guerin,  by  Sainte-Beuve,      .  19 

IV.  Journal  of  Maurice  de  Guerin,       .  ,  .  '57 


ESSAY 


ON 

THE    LIFE    AND     GENIUS 

OF 

MAURICE     DE     GUERIN 

BY 

MATTHEW    ARNOLD. 


WILL  not  presume  to  say  that  I  now  know 
the  French  language  well;  but  at  a  time 
when  I  knew  it  even  less  well  than  at  pres- 
ent,— some  fifteen  years  ago, — I  remember 
pestering  those  about  me  with  this  sentence,  the  rhythm 
of  which  had  lodged  itself  in  my  head,  and  which,  with 
the  strangest  pronunciation  possible,  I  kept  perpetually 
declaiming:  "Les  dieux  jaloux  ont  enfoui  quelque  part 
les  temoignages  de  la  descendance  des  choses ;  mais  au 
bord  de  quel  Ocean  ont  ils  roule  la  pierre  qui  les  couvre, 
6  Macaree ! " 

These  words  come  from  a  short  composition  called 


2  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

the  Centaur,  of  which  the  author,  Georges-Maurice  de 
Guerin,  died  in  the  year  1839,  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight, 
without  having  pubhshed  anything.  In  1840,  Madame 
Sand  brought  out  the  Centaur  in  the  Revue  des  Deux 
Moitdes,  with  a  short  notice  of  its  author,  and  a  few  ex- 
tracts from  his  letters.  A  year  or  two  afterwards  she 
reprinted  these  at  the  end  of  a  volume  of  her  novels ; 
and  there  it  was  that  I  fell  in  with  them.  I  was  so  much 
struck  with  the  Centaur  that  I  waited  anxiously  to  hear 
something  more  of  its  author,  and  of  what  he  had  left ; 
but  it  was  not  till  the  other  day — twenty  years  after  the 
first  publication  of  the  Centaur  in  the  Revue  des  Deux 
Mojtdes — that  my  anxiety  was  satisfied.  At  the  end  of 
i860  appeared  two  volumes  with  the  title,  Maurice  de 
Guerin,  Reliquice,  containing  the  Ce7ttaur,  several  poems 
of  Guerin,  his  journals,  and  a  number  of  his  letters,  col- 
lected and  edited  by  a  devoted  friend,  M.  Trebutien, 
and  preceded  by  a  notice  of  Guerin  by  the  first  of  living 
critics,  M.  Sainte-Beuve. 

— -The  grand  power  of  poetry  is  its  interpretative  power; 
by  which  I  mean,  not  a  power  of  drawing  out  in  black 
and  white  an  explanation  of  the  mystery  of  the  universe, 
but  the  power  of  so  dealing  with  things  as  to  awaken  in 
us  a  wonderfully  full,  new,  and  intimate  sense  of  them, 
and  of  our  relations  with  them.  When  this  sense  is 
awakened  in  us,  as  to  objects  without  us,  we  feel  our- 
selves to  be  in  contact  with  the  essential  nature  of  those 
objects,  to  be  no  longer  bewildered  and  oppressed  by 
them,  but  to  have  their  secret,  and  to  be  in  harmony 
with  them ;  and  this  feeling  calms  and  satisfies  us  as  no 
other  can.  Poetry,  indeed,  interprets  in  another  way 
besides  this ;  but  one  of  its  two  ways  of  interpreting,  of 
.exercising  its  highest  power,  is  by  awakening  this  sense 


Essayy  by  Matthew  Arnold,  3 

in  us.  I  will  not  now  inquire  whether  this  sense  is 
illusive,  whether  it  can  be  proved  not  to  be  illusive, 
whether  it  does  absolutely  make  us  possess  the  real 
nature  of  things ;  all  I  say  is,  that  poetry  can  awaken 
it  in  us,  and  that  to  awaken  it  is  one  of  the  highest 
powers  of  poetry.  The  interpretations  of  science  do 
not  give  us  this  intimate  sense  of  objects  as  the  inter- 
pretations of  poetry  give  it;  they  appeal  to  a  limited 
faculty,  and  not  to  the  whole  man.  It  is  not  Linnaeus, 
or  Cavendish,  or  Cuvier  who  gives  us  the  true  sense  of 
animals,  or  water,  or  plants,  who  seizes  their  secret  for 
us,  who  makes  us  participate  in  their  life  j  it  is  Shake- 
speare, with  his 

"  daffodils 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty  " ; 

it  is  Wordsworth,  with  his 

"voice  ....  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides  " ; 

it  is  Keats,  with  his 

"  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 
Of  cold  ablution  round  Earth's  human  shores  " ; 

it  is  Chateaubriand,  with  his  ^^  chne  i?idetermink  des  fo- 
rets " ;  it  is  Senancour,  with  his  mountain  birch-tree : 
"  Cette  ecorce  blanche^  lisse  et  crevassee ;  cette  tige  agreste; 
ces  branches  qui  sHncUnent  vers  la  terre ;  la  mobiliti  des 
feuillesj  et  tout  cet  abandon,  simplicity  de  la  nature,  attitude 
des  dtserts.^^ 

Eminent  manifestations   of  this   magical    power   of 


4  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

poetry  are  very  rare  and  very  precious ;  the  composi- 
tions of  Guerin  manifest  it,  I  think,  in  singular  eminence. 
Not  his  poems,  strictly  so  called — his  verse, — so  much 
as  his  prose  ;  his  poems  in  general  take  for  their  vehicle 
that  favorite  metre  of  French  poetry,  the  Alexandrine  j 
and,  in  my  judgment,  I  confess  they  have  thus,  as  com- 
pared with  his  prose,  a  great  disadvantage  to  start  with. 
In  prose,  the  character  of  the  vehicle  for  the  composer's 
thoughts  is  not  determined  beforehand ;  every  composer 
has  to  make  his  own  vehicle ;  and  who  has  ever  done 
this  more  admirably  than  the  great  prose-writers  of 
France, — Pascal,  Bossuet,  F^nelon,  Voltaire?  But  in 
verse  the  composer  has  (with  comparatively  narrow 
liberty  of  modification)  to  accept  his  vehicle  ready-made ; 
it  is  therefore  of  vital  importance  to  him  that  he  should 
find  at  his  disposal  a  vehicle  adequate  to  convey  the 
highest  matters  of  poetry.  We  may  even  get  a  decisive 
test  of  the  poetical  power  of  a  language  and  nation  by 
ascertaining  how  far  the  principal  poetical  vehicle  which 
they  have  employed,  how  far  (in  plainer  words)  the  es- 
tablished national  metre  for  high  poetry,  is  adequate  or 
inadequate.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  established  metre 
of  this  kind  in  France — the  Alexandrine — is  inadequate ; 
that  as  a  vehicle  for  high  poetry  it  is  greatly  inferior  to 
the  hexameter  or  to  the  iambics  of  Greece,  (for  example,) 
or  to  the  blank  verse  of  England.  Therefore  the  man 
of  genius  who  uses  it  is  at  a  disadvantage  as  compared 
with  the  man  of  genius  who  has  for  conveying  his  thouglits 
a  more  adequate  vehicle,  metrical  or  not.  Racine  is  at 
a  disadvantage  as  compared  with  Sophocles  or  Shake- 
speare, and  he  is  likewise  at  a  disadvantage  as  compared 
with  Bossuet.  The  same  may  be  said  of  our  own  poets 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  a  century  which  gave  them  as 


Essay,  by  Matthew  Arnold,  5 

the  main  vehicle  for  their  high  poetry  a  metre  inadequate 
(as  much  as  the  French  Alexandrine,  and  nearly  in  the 
same  way)  for  this  poetry, — the  ten-syllable  couplet.  It 
is  worth  remarking,  that  the  English  poet  of  the  eighteenth 
century  v/hose  compositions  wear  best  and  give  one  the 
most  entire  satisfaction, — Gray, — does  not  use  that 
couplet  at  all ;  this  abstinence,  however,  limits  Gray's 
productions  to  a  few  short  compositions,  and  (exquisite 
as  these  are)  he  is  a  poetical  nature  repressed  and  with- 
out free  issue.  For  English  poetical  production  on  a 
great  scale,  for  an  English  poet  deploying  all  the  forces 
of  his  genius,  the  ten-syllable  couplet  was,  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  the  established,  one  may  almost  say  the  inevi- 
table, channel.  Now  this  couplet,  admirable  (as  Chaucer 
uses  it)  for  story-telling  not  of  the  epic  pitch,  and  often 
admirable  for  a  few  lines  even  in  poetry  of  a  very  high 
pitch,  is  for  continuous  use  in  poetry  of  this  latter 
kind  inadequate.  Pope,  in  his  Essay  o?t  Man,  is  thus 
at  a  disadvantage  compared  with  Lucretius  in  his  poem 
on  Nature  :  Lucretius  has  an  adequate  vehicle,  Pope  has 
not.  Nay,  though  Pope's  genius  for  didactic  poetry  was 
not  less  than  that  of  Horace,  while  his  satirical  power 
was  certainly  greater,  still  one's  taste  receives,  I  cannot 
but  think,  a  certain  satisfaction  when  one  reads  the 
Epistles  and  Satires  of  Horace,  which  it  fails  to  receive 
when  one  reads  the  Satires  and  Epistles  of  Pope.  Of 
such  avail  is  the  superior  adequacy  of  the  vehicle  used 
to  compensate  even  an  inferiority  of  genius  in  the  user ! 
In  the  same  way  Pope  is  at  a  disadvantage  as  compared 
with  Addison :  the  best  of  Addison's  composition  (the 
"  Coverley  Papers  "  in  the  Spectator,  for  instance)  wears 
better  than  the  best  of  Pope's,  because  Addison  has  in 
his  prose  an  intrinsically  better  vehicle  for  his  genius 


6  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

than  Pope  in  his  couplet.  But  Bacon  has  no  such  ad- 
vantage over  Shakespeare;  nor  has  Milton,  writing 
prose  (for  no  contemporary  English  prose-writer  must 
be  matched  with  Milton  except  Milton  himself),  any- 
such  advantage  over  Milton  writing  verse :  indeed,  the 
advantage  here  is  all  the  other  way. 

It  is  in  the  prose  remains  of  Guerin, — his  journals, 
his  letters,  and  the  striking  composition  which  I  have 
already  mentioned,  the  Centaur, — that  his  extraordinary 
gift  manifests  itself.  He  has  a  truly  interpretative 
faculty;  the  most  profound  and  delicate  sense  of  the 
life  of  Nature,  and  the  most  exquisite  felicity  in  finding 
expressions  to  render  that  sense.  To  all  who  love  poetry, 
Guerin  deserves  to  be  something  more  than  a  name ;  and 
I  shall  try,  in  spite  of  the  impossibility  of  doing  justice 
to  such  a  master  of  expression  by  translations,  to  make 
my  English  readers  see  for  themselves  how  gifted  an 
organization  his  was,  and  how  few  artists  have  received 
from  Nature  a  more  magical  faculty  of  interpreting  her.* 


In  few  natures,  however,  is  there  really  such  essential 
consistency  as  in  Guerin's.  He  says  of  himself,  in  the 
very  beginning  of  his  journal :  "  I  owe  everything  to 
poetry,  for  there  is  no  other  name  to  give  to  the  sum 
total  of  my  thoughts ;  I  owe  to  it  whatever  I  now  have 
pure,  lofty,  and  solid  in  my  soul ;  I  owe  to  it  all  my  con- 
solations in  the  past;  I  shall  probably  owe  to  it  my 
future."     Poetry,  the  poetical  instinct,  was  indeed  the 

*  Here  and  elsewhere,  where  breaks  are  marked  by  asterisks, 
the  American  editor  has  taken  the  liberty  of  omitting  from  Professor 
Arnold's  essay  passages  which  would  be  superfluous  in  a  volume 
containing  De  Guerin's  Journal. 


Essay,  by  Matthew  Arnold,  7 

basis  of  his  nature;  but  to  say  so  thus  absolutely  is  not 
quite  enough.  One  aspect  of  poetry  fascinated  Gu^rin's 
imagination  and  held  it  prisoner.  Poetry  is  the  inter- 
pretress of  the  natural  world,  and  she  is  the  interpretress 
of  the  moral  world ;  it  was  as  the  interpretress  of  the 
natural  world  that  she  had  Guerin  for  her  mouthpiece. 
To  make  magically  near  and  real  the  life  of  Nature,  and 
man's  life  only  so  far  as  it  is  a  part  of  that  Nature,  was 
his  faculty ;  a  faculty  of  naturalistic,  not  of  moral  inter- 
pretation. This  faculty  always  has  for  its  basis  a  pecu- 
liar temperament,  an  extraordinary  delicacy  of  organ- 
ization and  susceptibility  to  impressions ;  in  exercising 
it  the  poet  is  in  a  great  degree  passive  (Wordsworth  thus 
speaks  of  a  wise  passiveness) ;  he  aspires  to  be  a  sort  of 
human  ^olian-harp,  catching  and  rendering  every  rustle 
of  Nature.  To  assist  at  the  evolution  of  the  whole  life 
of  the  world  is  his  craving,  and  intimately  to  feel  it  all : 

"the  glow,  the  thrill  of  life, 
Where,  where  do  these  abound  ? " 

is  what  he  asks :  he  resists  being  riveted  and  held  station- 
ary by  any  single  impression,  but  would  be  borne  on  for- 
ever down  an  enchanted  stream.  He  goes  into  religion 
and  out  of  religion,  into  society  and  out  of  society,  not 
from  the  motives  which  impel  men  in  general,  but  to  feel 
what  it  is  all  like ;  he  is  thus  hardly  a  moral  agent,  and, 
like  the  passive  and  ineffectual  Uranus  of  Keats's  poem, 

he  may  say : 

"  I  am  but  a  voice ; 
My  life  is  but  the  life  of  winds  and  tides  ; 
No  more  than  winds  and  tides  can  I  avail." 

He  hovers  over  the  tumult  of  life,  but  does  not  really  put 
his  hand  to  it. 


8  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

No  one  has  expressed  the  aspirations  of  this  tempera- 
ment better  than  Gu6rin  himself. 


Assuredly  it  is  not  in  this  temperament  that  the  active 
virtues  have  their  rise.  On  the  contrary,  this  tempera- 
ment, considered  in  itself  alone,  indisposes  for  the  dis- 
charge of  them.  Something  morbid  and  excessive,  as 
manifested  in  Guerin,  it  undoubtedly  has.  In  him,  as  in 
Keats,  and  as  in  another  youth  of  genius,  whose  name, 
but  the  other  day  unheard  of.  Lord  Houghton  has  so 
gracefully  written  in  the  history  of  English  poetry, — 
David  Gray, — the  temperament,  the  talent  itself,  is 
deeply  influenced  by  their  mysterious  malady  ;  the  tem- 
perament is  devouriitg;  it  uses  vital  power  too  hard  and 
too  fast,  paying  the  penalty  in  long  hours  of  unutterable 
exhaustion  and  in  premature  death.  The  intensity  of 
Guerin's  depression  is  described  to  us  by  Guerin  himself 
with  the  same  incomparable  touch  with  which  he  de- 
scribes happier  feelings ;  far  oftener  than  any  pleasur- 
able sense  of  his  gift  he  has  "  the  sense  profound,  near, 
immense,  of  my  misery,  of  my  inward  poverty."  And 
again  :  "  My  inward  misery  gains  upon  me  ;  I  no  longer 
dare  look  within."  And  on  another  day  of  gloom  he 
does  look  within,  and  here  is  the  terrible  analysis  : 

"  Craving,  unquiet,  seeing  only  by  glimpses,  my  spirit 
is  stricken  by  all  those  ills  which  are  the  sure  fruit  of  a 
youth  doomed  never  to  ripen  into  manhood.  I  grow  old 
and  wear  myself  out  in  the  most  futile  mental  strainings, 
and  make  no  progress.  My  head  seems  dying,  and  when 
the  wind  blows  I  fancy  I  feel  it,  as  if  I  were  a  tree,  blow- 
ing through  a  number  of  withered  branches  in  my  top. 
Study  is  intolerable  to  me,  or  rather  it  is  quite  out  of  my 


Essay^  by  Matthew  Arnold,  9 

power.  Mental  work  brings  on,  not  drowsiness,  but  an 
irritable  and  nervous  disgust  which  drives  me  out,  I  know 
not  where,  into  the  streets  and  public  places.  The  Spring, 
whose  delights  used  to  come  every  year  stealthily  and 
mysteriously  to  charm  me  in  my  retreat,  crushes  me  this 
year  under  a  weight  of  sudden  hotness.  I  should  be  glad 
of  any  event  which  delivered  me  from  the  situation  in 
which  I  am.  If  I  were  free  I  would  embark  for  some 
distant  country  where  I  could  begin  life  anew." 

Such  is  this  temperament  in  the  frequent  hours  when 
the  sense  of  its  own  weakness  and  isolation  crushes  it  to 
the  ground.  Certainly  it  was  not  for  Guerin's  happiness, 
or  for  Keats's,  as  men  count  happiness,  to  be  as  they 
were.  Still  the  very  excess  and  predominance  of  their 
temperament  has  given  to  the  fruits  of  their  genius  an 
unique  brilliancy  and  flavor.  I  have  said  that  poetry 
interprets  in  two  ways  ;  it  interprets  by  expressing  with 
magical  felicity  the  physiognomy  and  movement  of  the 
outward  world,  and  it  interprets  by  expressing,  with  in- 
spired conviction,  the  ideas  and  laws  of  the  inward  world 
of  man's  moral  and  spiritual  nature.  In  other  words, 
poetry  is  interpretative  both  by  having  natural  magic  in 
it,  and  by  having  moral  profundity.  In  both  ways  it 
illuminates  man  :  it  gives  him  a  satisfying  sense  of  real- 
ity j  it  reconciles  him  with  himself  and  the  universe. 
Thus  ^SChylus's  "  Spdo-avn  TraS-CLV  "  and  his  "  avrjpiS^jXOV 
yeXacr/xa"  are  alike  interpretative.  Shakespeare  inter- 
prets both  when  he  says, 

"  Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen, 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovran  eye  "  j 

and  when  he  says, 

"  There 's  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough-hev/  them  as  we  will." 


lo  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

These  great  poets  unite  in  themselves  the  faculty  of  both 
kinds  of  interpretation,  the  naturalistic  and  the  moral. 
But  it  is  observable  that  in  the  poets  who  unite  both 
kinds,  the  latter  (the  moral)  usually  ends  by  making 
itself  the  master.  In  Shakespeare  the  two  kinds  seem 
wonderfully  to  balance  one  another  ;  but  even  in  him  the 
balance  leans  j  his  expression  tends  to  become  too  little 
sensuous  and  simple,  too  much  intellectualized.  The 
same  thing  may  be  yet  more  strongly  affirmed  of  Lucre- 
tius and  of  Wordsworth.  In  Shelley  there  is  not  a  bal- 
ance of  the  two  gifts,  nor  even  a  co-existence  of  them, 
but  there  is  a  passionate  straining  after  them  both,  and 
this  is  what  makes  Shelley,  as  a  man,  so  interesting.  I 
will  not  now  inquire  how  much  Shelley  achieves  as  a 
I  poet,  but  whatever  he  achieves,  he  in  general  fails  to 
achieve  natural  magic  in  his  expression ;  in  Mr.  Pal- 
grave's  charming  Treasury  may  be  seen  a  gallery  of  his 
failures.*  But  in  Keats  and  Guerin,  in  whom  the  faculty 
of  naturalistic  interpretation  is  overpoweringly  predomi- 
nant, the  natural  magic  is  perfect ;  when  they  speak  of  the 
world  they  speak  like  Adam  naming  by  divine  inspira- 
tion the  creatures  ;  their  expression  corresponds  with  the 
*  thing's  essential  reality.  Even  between  Keats  and 
Guerin,  however,  there  is  a  distinction  to  be  drawn. 
Keats  has,  above  all,  a  sense  of  what  is  pleasurable  and 

*  Compare,  for  example,  his  "  Lines  Written  in  the  Euganean 
Hills,"  with  Keats's  "  Ode  to  Autumn"  {Golden  Treasury,  pp.  256, 
284).  The  latter  piece  renders  Nature ;  the  former  tries  to  render 
her.  I  will  not  deny,  however,  that  Shelley  has  natural  magic  in 
his  rhythm ;  what  I  deny  is,  that  he  has  it  in  his  language.  It 
always  seems  to  me  that  the  right  sphere  for  Shelley's  genius  was 
the  sphere  of  music,  not  of  poetry ;  the  medium  of  sounds  he  can 
master,  but  to  master  the  more  difficult  medium  of  words  he  has 
neither  intellectual  force  enough  nor  sanity  enough. 


Essay ^  by  Matthew  Arnold,  ii 

open  in  the  life  of  Nature  ;  for  him  she  is  the  Alma 
Pare7is :  his  expression  has,  therefore,  more  than 
Guerin's,  something  genial,  outward,  and  sensuous. 
Gu^rin  has  above  all  a  sense  of  what  there  is  adorable 
and  secret  in  the  life  of  Nature  ;  for  him  she  is  the 
Magna  Parens :  his  expression  has,  therefore,  more  than 
Keats's,  something  mystic,  inward,  and  profound. 

So  he  lived  like  a  man  possessed ;  with  his  eye  not 
on  his  own  career,  not  on  the  public,  not  on  fame,  but  on 
the  Isis  whose  veil  he  had  uplifted.  He  published  noth- 
ing :  "  There  is  more  power  and  beauty,"  he  writes,  "  in 
the  well-kept  secret  of  one's  self  and  one's  thoughts, 
than  in  the  display  of  a  whole  heaven  that  one  may 
have  inside  one."  "  My  spirit,"  he  answers  the  friends 
who  urge  him  to  write,  "  is  of  the  home-keeping  order, 
and  has  no  fancy  for  adventure  ;  literary  adventure  is 
above  all  distasteful  to  it ;  for  this,  indeed  (let  me  say  so 
without  the  least  self-sufficiency),  it  has  a  contempt. 
The  literary  career  seems  to  me  unreal,  both  in  its  own 
essence  and  in  the  rewards  which  one  seeks  from  it,  and 
therefore  fatally  marred  by  a  secret  absurdity."  His 
acquaintances,  and  among  them  distinguished  men  of  let- 
ters, full  of  admiration  for  the  originality  and  delicacy  of 
his  talent,  laughed  at  his  self-depreciation,  wannly  as- 
sured him  of  his  powers.  He  received  their  assurances 
with  a  mournful  incredulity,  which  contrasts  curiously 
with  the  self-assertion  of  poor  David  Gray,  whom  I  just 
now  mentioned.  "  It  seems  to  me  intolerable,"  he  writes, 
"  to  appear  to  men  other  than  one  appears  to  God.  My 
worst  torture  at  this  moment  is  the  over-estimate  which 
generous  friends  form  of  me.  We  are  told  that  at  the 
last  judgment  the  secret  of  all  consciences  will  be  laid 
bare  to  the  universe  ;  would  that  mine  were  so  this  day. 


12  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

and  that  every  passer-by  could  see  me  as  I  am  !  "  "  High 
above  my  head,"  he  says  at  another  time,  "far,  far  away, 
I  seem  to  hear  the  murmur  of  that  world  of  thought  and 
feeling  to  which  I  aspire  so  often,  but  where  I  can  never 
attain.  I  think  of  those  of  my  own  age  who  have  wings 
strong  enough  to  reach  it,  but  I  think  of  them  without 
jealousy,  and  as  men  on  earth  contemplate  the  elect 
and  their  felicity."  And,  criticising  his  own  composition, 
"When  I  begin  a  subject,  my  self-conceit"  (says  this  ex- 
quisite artist)  "  imagines  I  am  doing  wonders  j  and  when 
I  have  finished,  I  see  nothing  but  a  wretched  made-up 
imitation,  composed  of  odds  and  ends  of  color  stolen  from 
other  people's  pallets,  and  tastelessly  mixed  together  on 
mine."  Such  was  his  passion  for  perfection^  his  disdain 
for  all  poetical  work  not  perfectly  adequate  and  felicitous. 
The  magic  of  expression  to  which  by  the  force  of  this 
passion  he  won  his  way,  will  make  the  name  of  Maurice 
de  Guerin  remembered  in  literature.* 


*  The  remainder  of  Professor  Arnold's  essay  would  needlessly 
anticipate  matter  to  be  contained  in  the  volume  of  Letters  and  Liter- 
ary Remains  of  Maurice  de  Guerin. 


PREFACE 

TO 

THE    ORIGINAL    EDITION, 

BY 

G.    S.    T  REB  U  TIEN. 


SHALL  write  only  a  few  lines  at  the  begin- 
ning of  this  volume.  The  collection  and 
arrangement  of  the  material  have  been  done 
by  me  :  but  it  is  not  my  province  to  speak 
of  the  author.  I  will  here  merely  say  that  at  a  time 
already  distant,  I  knew  Maurice  de  Guerin;  I  loved 
him,  and  lived  with  him  in  an  intimacy  which  is  the 
honor  of  my  life,  and  to-day  my  chief  joy. 

The  friends  of  Maurice  have  always  regarded  the 
publication  of  his  manuscripts  as  a  duty  lending  lustre 
to  their  own  reputation.  This  publication,  so  ardently 
desired,  especially  by  his  sister  Eugenie,  has  been  sus- 
pended, owing  to  the  delay  of  circumstances  not  worth 
recalling,  and  which  seem  to  have  been  in  a  manner 
providential.     At  last  it  sees  the  light,  and  under  most 


14  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

happy  auspices.  M.  Sainte-Beuve,  who  for  a  long  time 
had  been  taking  a  sympathetic  interest  in  the  matter, 
hastened  to  announce  it  in  the  Moniteur  Universel,  and, 
with  courtesy  which  is  highly  prized,  has  allowed  me  to 
reproduce  the  fine  sketch  dedicated  by  him  to  the  author  of 
The  Centaur.  A  name  of  such  weight  as  his,  placed  on 
the  title  page  of  the  book,  not  merely  augurs  success ; 
it  makes  success  certain. 

The  greater  part  of  the  fragments  which  I  publish 
were  in  the  possession  of  the  friends  of  Gudrin,  who 
fairly  groaned  in  the  knowledge  that  these  fragments 
were  scattered  like  unknown  diamonds,  soon  perhaps  to 
be  lost.  To  me  they  have  entrusted  them,  through  a 
choice  which  I  have  felt  bound  to  recognize  by  laboring 
with  all  my  might  to  restore  them  these  treasures  re- 
united and  forever  saved.  They  were  inestimable  relics, 
for  which  they  made  it  my  duty  to  prepare  a  shrine.  And 
here  let  me  say  that  I  have  put  into  the  execution  of  this 
sacred  task,  which  I  regard  as  my  mission  here  below, 
whatever  there  was  best  in  me :  conscientiousness, 
scrupulous  care,  self-devotion,  and  complete  and  living 
faith  in  the  talent  now  consecrated  by  death.  Some 
years  since,  I  visited  the  Valley  of  Arguenon  in  Brittany, 
whence  Maurice  dated  his  finest  inspirations.  I  wished 
to  see  the  places  where  he  passed  his  happiest  days, 
the  sea  of  which  he  sang,  all  the  objects  over  which  he 
poured  his  spirit,  and  where  I  was  desirous  to  mingle 
somewhat  of  my  own.  If  circumstances  incidental  and 
personal  have  caused  me  to  find  the  bitter  drop  mysteri- 
ously hidden  at  the  bottom  of  the  sweetest  cups,  I  am 
doubly  repaid  by  the  consciousness  of  having  accom- 
plished the  supreme  desire  of  Eugenie,  dead  before  the 
day  for  which  she  waited,  and  by  the  pride  I  take  (a 


Preface^  by  G.  S,  'Trebutien,  15 

pride  from  which  I  cannot  defend  myself)  in  placing  at 
the  beginning  of  Guerin's  works,  and  under  his  name, 
this  signature  of  friendship  and  remembrance. 

G.    S.   TREBUTIEN. 

Caen  Library,  November  28,  i860. 

Postscript.  November  30,  186 1. — Just  a  year  since 
the  editor  of  Maurice  de  Guerin  wrote  the  preceding 
lines.  The  brief  interval  of  a  year  has  sufficed  to  justify 
his  anticipations  and  crown  a  success  which  has  even 
surpassed  his  hopes. 

In  prefacing  this  new  edition,  he  had  intended  only 
to  record  an  acknowledgment  of  his  gratitude  for  those 
friendly  voices  which  have  contributed,  through  the  Paris 
press,  to  awaken  public  curiosity,  and  render  familiar  to 
all  a  name  which  the  publication  of  The  Centaur,  and 
Madame  Sand's  article  had,  twenty  years  before,  endeared 
to  a  few.  Unfortunately,  there  remains  the  discharge  of  a 
more  delicate  duty. 

Criticism,  unanimous  in  recognizing  the  original  talent 
of  Maurice  de  Guerin,  was  divided  in  seeking  to  deter- 
mine the  philosophic  and  religious  ideas  which  had  been 
the  source  of  his  poetical  inspiration.  On  this  point,  the 
contest,  traces  of  which  we  have  not  been  allowed  wholly 
to  efface  from  this  volume,  has  been  sufficiently  lively  to 
alarm  the  sensitive  conscience  of  a  tender  and  pious 
sister,  the  faithful  custodian  of  the  reputation  of  her 
family,  but  even  more  firmly  attached  to  the  faith  which 
was  equally  that  of  all  her  household.  In  order  to  fore- 
stall the  secret  wish  of  Mile.  Marie  de  Guerin,  and  for 
the  mere  sake  of  truth,  M.  A.  Raynaud,  a  relative,  who 
was  Maurice's  best  friend,  and  in  a  manner  his  second 
father,  beseeches  M.  de  Marzan,  as  well  as  ourselves,  "  to 


1 6  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

present  this  Christian  figure  clear  of  every  mist  of  un- 
belief and  irreligion." 

We  desire  to  fulfil  a  promise,  which  to  us  is  sacred, 
without  being  accused  of  renewing  a  discussion  which  at 
any  cost  we  would  gladly  have  prevented,  and  even  now 
wish  to  close.  Against  the  opinion  of  these  writers, 
whose  sincerity,  for  the  matter  of  that,  we  respect,  and 
for  whose  interest  in  a  memoir  which  they  professed, 
after  their  fashion,  to  honor,  we  are  duly  grateful,  we 
shall  not  set  up  our  individual  opinion.  It  will  suffice 
to  summon  two  witnesses  whose  testimony  in  our  view  of 
the  matter,  is  decisive. 

One  is  Guerin  himself 

One  evening  in  the  month  of  December,  1833,  he 
was  reading  to  his  friends  at  the  Valley  of  Arguenon 
some  passages  from  his  Green  Note-book.  Struck  with 
certain  vague  expressions,  M.  de  Marzan  called  Maurice's 
attention  to  them  : 

"  That  is  a  grand  idea,"  said  he,  "  and  undoubtedly 
Christian  at  bottom  ;  but  in  the  form  of  expression  there 
mingles,  nevertheless,  a  marked  tone  of  naturalism  which 
the  pantheistic  school  could  perhaps  interpret  to  their 
advantage." 

The  narrator  thus  continues  : 

"  To  my  remark,  so  entirely  unexpected,  Guerin  re- 
plied at  first  by  that  involuntary  smile  to  which  the  sud- 
den thought  of  an  improbable  thing  always  gives  rise  ; 
but  seeing  that  I  insisted,  he  readily  vindicated  himself 
from  the  least  suspicion  of  pantheism,  and  protested  that 
the  passage  meant  this,  and  nothing  more ;  that  the  heart 
of  man  was  the  point  of  union  between  heaven  and 
earth,  and,  as  it  were,  the  rendezvous,  in  humanity,  J^f 
God  and  man." 


Preface^  by  G.  S,  Trebutietio  17 

And  Maurice  offered,  moreover,  if  he  were  mistaken, 
to  give  up  the  point. 

A  voice  issuing  from  the  tomb,  or  rather  descending 
from  heaven,  will  put  an  end  to  these  discussions. 
Doubts  which  the  Journal  of  Maurice  de  Guerin  might 
leave  on  the  mind,  that  of  his  sister  Eugenie  will  easily 
scatter.  That  touching  oneness  of  feeling  between 
brother  and  sister  people  will  believe.  The  truth  is,  that 
during  the  three  years  preceding  Guerin's  marriage  his 
faith  was  lukewarm.  At  this  time  the  progress  of  his 
indifference  can  be  noted.  Nowhere  can  you  find  un- 
belief. Lover  and  poet  of  Nature  as  he  was,  he  had 
never  ceased  to  be  Christian.  The  account  of  his  last 
moments  will  forbid  our  forgetting  in  what  quarter  his 
heart  sought  for  hope,  and  his  soul  for  truth.  On  the 
threshold  of  immortality,  he  had  only  to  retire  within 
himself,  there  to  find  again,  without  effort  and  with  joy 
supreme,  a  faith  which  had  slept  at  intervals,  but  which 
had  never  been  quenched. 

A  few  words  only  on  this  second  edition.  We  have 
been  able  to  revise  the  original  manuscripts,  with  the 
greater  part  of  the  letters,  of  which  we  previously  had 
only  the  copies  made  by  Chopin — precious  copies,  and 
for  the  most  part  exact,  in  which,  nevertheless,  we  have 
retrieved  some  errors  and  restored  some  undesirable 
gaps. 

It  is  possible  the  text  has  thus  been  improved  in  sev- 
eral passages.  But  our  greatest  happiness  has  been  to 
add  to  the  fragments  published  last  year  nearly  thirty 
new  letters,  and  La  Bacchante — a  curious  piece  of  com- 
position in  the  style  of  The  Centaur,  the  idea  of  which, 
like  that,  came  to  Gudrin  in  one  of  those  visits  which  we 
used  occasionally  to  make  to  the  Musee  des  Antiques, 


i8  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

These  additions  make  our  collection  complete,  with 
the  exception  of  some  verses  which  we  have  been  com- 
pelled to  sacrifice,  of  a  small  number  of  letters  which 
were  not  at  our  disposal,  or  which  were  of  those  whose 
confidential  character  Madame  Sand  has  already  regret- 
ted did  not  allow  of  their  being  wholly  transcribed.  As 
regards  everything  bordering  on  the  domestic  details  of 
life,  there  are  limits  where  the  most  legitimate  curiosity 
should  pause. 

We  can,  therefore,  hope  that  our  mission  is  fulfilled, 
and  it  is  with  a  feeling  of  profound  acknowledgment  that 
we  give  thanks  to  God  for  having  left  us  the  time  and 
strength  necessary  to  conduct  to  a  close  the  pious  task 
we  had  undertaken,  and  which,  spite  of  many  difficulties, 
we  have  pursued  in  sorrow  and  love. — G.  S.  T. 


1^ 


MEMOIR 

OF 


MAURICE    DE    GUERIN, 


M.     SAINTE    BEUVE. 


JN  the  fifteenth  of  May,  1840,  the  Revue  des 
Deux  Mofides  published  an  article  of  George 
Sand  on  a  young  poet  whose  name  was  en- 
tirely unknown  up  to  that  time — Georges- 
Maurice  DE  GuERiN,  who  had  died  the  preceding  year, 
on  the  nineteenth  of  July,  1839,  aged  twenty-nine  years. 
What  secured  him  the  posthumous  honor  of  being  thus 
suddenly  classed,  with  the  rank  of  a  star,  among  the 
poets  of  France,  was  a  magnificent  and  singular  compo- 
sition, The  Centaur,  in  which  all  the  original  forces  of 
the  natural  man  were  felt,  expressed,  energetically  per- 
sonified, always  with  taste  and  moderation,  and  which 
showed  at  once  the  hand  of  a  master — "the  Andrd 
Chenier  of  pantheism,"  as  a  friend  had  already  named 
him. 

Around  this  colossal  piece  of  antique  marble,  frag- 


20  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

ments  quoted  from  letters,  outpourings  which  revealed  a 
tender  and  beautiful  soul,  formed,  as  it  were,  a  charming 
group,  partially  veiled,  of  half  confidences  ;  and  glimpses 
caught  in  passing  created  an  eager  desire  for  the  rest. 
There  was  from  that  time  among  the  young  a  little  cho- 
sen school,  a  scattered  band  of  admirers,  who  named  the 
name  of  Guerin,  who  rallied  around  this  youthful  mem- 
ory, reverenced  it  with  secret  fervor,  and  longed  for  the 
moment  which  should  yield  them  the  finished  work — when 
the  entire  soul  should  be  disclosed  to  them.  Twenty 
years  have  since  slipped  away,  and  difficulties,  objections, 
scruples,  of  every  kind  and  of  the  most  delicate  nature, 
had  delayed  the  fulfilment  of  the  vow  consecrated  to  art 
by  friendship.  Gudrin  had  already  had  time  to  be  imi- 
tated by  other  poets,  who  seemed  quite  unconscious  of 
this  imitation,  and  his  own  v/orks  had  not  been  published 
and  brought  to  light.  In  the  interval,  however,  five  years 
after,  appeared,  with  the  reservation,  at  first,  of  a  partial 
publicity,  the  Reliques  of  a  sister  of  the  poet,  Eugenie  de 
Guerin,  his  equal,  if  not  his  superior  in  talent  and  soul. 
The  desire  finally  to  know  and  possess  the  complete 
works  of  the  brother  was  thereby  increased,  and,  as  it 
were,  stimulated.  We  are  happy  to  announce  that  they 
are  about  to  appear  ;  faithful  friends  have  selected  and 
prepared  the  material ;  and  the  learned  and  poetical 
antiquary,  M.  Trebutien,  devoting  his  attention  to  it  as  a 
fervent  monk  of  the  middle  ages  would  have  done  to  the 
writing  and  illuminating  of  a  holy  missal,  the  treasure  of 
his  abbey,  has  procured  their  publication. 

Nothing  was  exaggerated  in  the  first  impression  re- 
ceived in  1840  ;  everything  is  to-day  justified  and  con- 
firmed ;  the  modern  school,  in  fact,  counts  one  poet,  one 
landscape-painter  the  more.     I  must  first  refer  him  to 


Memoir  J  by  M.  Saint  e  Beuve,  21 

his  true  epoch,  to  his  real  beginnings.  It  was  in  1833 
that  Maurice  de  Gu^rin,  who  was  then  only  in  his  twenty- 
third  year,  began  to  develop  and  expand  in  the  circle  of 
friendship  that  first  flower  of  sentiment,  which  has  at 
length  been  exhibited  to  us,  and  which  is  to  yield  us  all 
its  perfume.  Born  on  the  fifth  of  August,  18 10,  he  be- 
longed to  that  second  generation  of  the  century,  which 
was  no  longer  two  or  three,  but  ten  or  eleven  years  old 
when  it  produced  that  new  flock,  the  Mussets,  the  Monta- 
lemberts,  the  Guerins  ; — I  purposely  write  these  names 
together.  Born  under  the  beautiful  sky  of  the  South,  of 
an  ancient  family,  noble  and  poor,  Maurice  de  Guerin,  a 
dreamer  from  his  childhood,  turned  early  toward  religious 
ideas,  and  inclined,  without  effort,  to  the  thought  of  the 
ecclesiastical  profession.  He  Vv^as  not  yet  twelve,  when,  in 
the  early  days  of  January,  1822,  he  left  for  the  first  time — 
poor  exiled  bird  ! — his  turrets  of  Cayla,  and  arrived  at 
Toulouse,  to  carry  on  his  studies, — I  believe,  at  the  little 
seminaiy.  He  came  to  Paris  to  complete  them,  at 
Stanislas  College.  It  was  on  his  departure  from  there, 
after  having  hesitated  some  time,  after  having  returned 
to  his  family  and  seen  his  sisters  and  their  friends,  that, 
disturbed,  sensitive,  and  even,  it  is  suspected,  secretly 
wounded,  he  went  to  La  Chenaie  to  seek  repose,  forget- 
fulness,  rather  than  to  carry  thither  the  religious  voca- 
tion, already  a  well-travelled  profession,  and  very  uncer- 
tain. 

He  had  loved,  he  had  wept  and  sung  his  sorrows  dur- 
ing a  season  passed  in  his  beautiful  South,  the  last 
before  his  departure  for  La  Chenaie.  Witness  these 
verses,  dated  at  La  Roche  d'Onelle,  which  refer  to  the 
autumn  of  1832  : 


22  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

The  delving  ages,  o'er  this  wrinkled  steep, 
Deep  clefts  have  worn,  where  raindrops,  nestling,  sleep  ; 
And  passing  birds  here  stay  their  evening  flight, 
To  drink  with  eager  beak  this  pure  delight. 
But  to  Onella's  rock  I  come,  forlorn, 
vThe  broken  spell  of  my  first  love  to  mourn  ; 
Here  breaks  my  suffering  heart,  here  rains  its  tears, 
Whose  gathered  flow  the  channelled  rock  upbears  ; 
Then  hover  not,  ye  passing  doves,  too  near  ; 
This  water  shun — 'tis  bitter  with  a  tear. 

A  young  Greek,  a  disciple  of  Theocritus  or  Moschus, 
could  not  have  spoken  better  than  this  young  Levite  who 
seemed  in  search  of  an  apostle. 

He  arrived  at  La  Chenaie  at  the  beginning  of  win- 
ter ;  he  was  there  on  Christmas,  1832  ;  he  had  found  his 
asylum.  La  Chenaie,  "  that  species  of  oasis  in  the  midst 
of  the  steppes  of  Brittany,"  where,  in  front  of  the  castle, 
stretches  a  vast  garden,  cut  by  a  terrace  planted  with  lin- 
dens, with  a  little  chapel  at  the  back,  was  the  retreat  of 
M.  de  Lamennais,  of  M.  Felt  (as  he  was  familiarly 
called)  ;  and  he  was  accustomed  to  have  about  him  four 
or  five  young  persons,  who,  in  this  country  life,  prose- 
cuted their  studies  zealously,  in  a  spirit  of  piety,  of  con- 
templation, and  of  generous  liberty.  The  period  at 
which  Guerin  arrived  there  was  one  of  the  most  mem- 
orable, one  of  the  most  decisive  for  the  master ;  this  we 
may  say  with  certainty  and  precision,  to-day,  when  we 
have  read  the  private  correspondence  of  Lamennais 
during  this  time.  This  great,  impetuous  soul,  which 
could  rest  only  in  extreme  solutions,  after  having  attempt- 
ed the  public  union  of  Catholicism  and  Democracy,  and 
preached  it  in  his  journal  in  the  tone  of  a  prophet,  had 
been  obliged  to  suspend  the  publication  oi  V Avenir.  He 
had  made  the  journey  to  Rome  to  consult  the  supreme 


MemoiVy  by  M.  Sainte  Beuve.  23 

authority ;  he  had  returned,  personally  well-treated,  but 
very  clearly  disapproved  of,  and  had  appeared  to  submit. 
Perhaps  he  thought  himself  sincerely  submissive,  even 
while  already  meditating  and  revolving  thoughts  of  ven- 
geance and  reprisal.  M.  de  Lamennais,  who  is  all  one 
thing  or  all  another,  without  any  medium,  exhibited  the 
strangest  contrast  in  his  double  nature.  At  one  time, 
and  often,  he  had  what  Buffon,  speaking  of  beasts  of 
prey,  has  called  a  soul  of  wrath ;  again,  and  no  less 
often,  he  had  a  sweetness,  a  tenderness  captivating  to 
little  children,  a  spirit  altogether  charming ;  and  he 
passed  from  one  to  the  other  in  an  instant.  The  veil 
which  has  since  been  torn  away,  and  which  has  exposed 
the  stormy  and  shifting  foundation  of  his  doctrines,  had 
then  hardly  been  raised.  None  of  those  who  knew  and 
loved  M.  de  Lamennais,  in  those  years  of  painful  pas- 
sion and  of  crisis,  have  been  obliged,  from  any  point  of 
view,  it  seems  to  me,  to  blush  for  or  repent  of  that  love. 
He  had  attempted  a  union — impossible,  I  admit — but 
the  most  dignified,  the  best  calculated  to  please  noble 
hearts  and  generous  and  religious  imaginations.  Warned 
that  he  was  mistaken,  and  that  he  was  not  acknowledged, 
he  halted  before  the  obstacle,  he  bowed  before  the  sen- 
tence :  he  suffered,  he  was  silent,  he  prayed.  When  he 
was  closely  observed  at  times,  one  would  have  said  that 
he  was  at  the  point  of  death.  One  day  (the  twenty- 
fourth  of  March,  1833),  sitting  behind  the  chapel,  under 
the  two  Scotch  firs  which  stood  in  this  spot,  he  had  taken 
his  stick  and  drawn  a  tomb  on  the  sward,  saying  to  one 
of  his  disciples  who  was  near  him  :  "  'Tis  there  I  wish  to 
lie  ;  but  no  monumental  stone — a  simple  mound  of  turf 
O  !  how  happy  I  shall  be  there  !  "  If  he  had  died,  in- 
deed, at  this  moment,  or  in  the  months  which  followed  ; 


24  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

if  he  had  succumbed  in  his  internal  struggle,  what  a  fair 
and  spotless  memory  would  he  have  left !  What  a  re- 
nown, as  disciiDle,  as  hero,  and  even  as  martyr  !  What  a 
mysterious  subject  of  meditation  and  of  reverie  for  those 
who  love  to  dwell  u^^on  great  destinies  interrupted ! 

But  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  him  here  except  in 
his  relations  to  Maurice  de  Guerin.  Admirer  and  prose- 
lyte as  he  then  was,  the  latter  was  to  submit  only  in  pass- 
ing to  the  influence  of  Lamennais.  A  year  or  two  later, 
he  was  entirely  emancipated  and  delivered  from  it. 
Whether  he  freed  himself  by  degrees  from  the  faith, 
whether  he  allowed  himself  gradually  to  be  v/on  by  the 
spirit  of  the  age,  it  was  not  in  the  train  of  the  great  ajDos- 
tate,  but  after  his  own  fashion,  and  he  erred  in  a  path  of 
his  own.  In  1835  he  was  no  longer  the  disciple  of  any 
person  nor  of  any  system.  After  three  years  of  an  inde- 
pendent and  thoroughly  Parisian  life,  at  the  approach  of 
death,  his  friends  had  the  consolation  of  seeing  him  re- 
embrace  Christianity. 

But  if  his  emancipation  was  to  take  place  through 
the  intellect,  he  still  belonged  fundamentally  to  the 
world  of  La  Chenaie  through  his  sensibility,  through 
profound  impressions,  through  the  first  and  unmistakable 
tokens  of  talent ;  so  that,  in  the  literary  perspective  of 
the  past,  he  comes,  although  separate,  to  take  a  place  as 
one  figure  in  the  frame  ;  there  he  belongs,  and  there  in 
future  he  wdll  remain,  the  landscape-painter,  the  artist, 
the  true  poet.  By  the  side  of  the  dazzling  names  of 
Montalembert,  of  Lacordaire,  which  resounded  abroad 
like  trumpets,  there  was — who  would  have  believed  it  ? — 
in  that  silent  and  peaceful  house,  an  obscure,  timid  young 
man,  whom  Lamennais,  abstracted  in  his  apocalyptic 
social  visions,  never  distinguished  from  the  others  ;   to 


Memoir y  by  M,  de  Saint e  Beuve,  25 

whom  he  gave  credit  for  only  ordinary  powers,  and  who, 
at  the  same  time  when  his  master  was  forging  on  his 
anvil  those  thunderbolts  called  Les  Paroles  d^wi  Croyant^ 
was  himself  writing  personal  pages  far  more  natural, 
fresher — why  not  say,  more  beautiful  ? — ^pages  calculated 
ever  to  thrill  souls  enamored  of  that  universal  life  which 
exhales  and  breathes  in  the  heart  of  the  woods,  on  the 
shores  of  the  sea. 

Gu^rin  arrived  at  La  Chenaie  in  winter,  in  the  depth 
of  the  dead  season,  when  everything  is  stripped,  when 
the  forests  are  of  a  rust-color^  under  that  sky  of  Brittany 
which  is  always  cloudy,  "  and  so  low  that  it  seems  ready 
to  crush  youj"  but  let  spring  come,  the  sky  lifts,  the 
woods  renew  their  life,  and  all  smiles  again.  The  win- 
ter, however,  is  slow  to  depart ;  the  young  and  loving 
observer  notes  in  his  journal  its  tardy  flight,  its  frequent 
returns  : 

"March  3^. — The  hours  of  to-day  have  enchanted 
me.  The  sun,  for  the  first  time  in  many  days,  has  shown 
himself  in  all  his  radiant  beauty.  He  has  unfolded  the 
buds  of  the  leaves  and  flowers,  and  awakened  in  my 
bosom  a  thousand  tender  thoughts. 

"  The  clouds  resume  their  light  and  graceful  shapes, 
and  sketch  the  blue  with  charming  fancies.  The  woods 
have  not  yet  their  leaves  ;  but  they  take  on  I  know  not 
what  spirited  and  joyful  air,  which  gives  them  an  entirely 
new  face.  Everything  is  preparing  for  the  great  holiday 
of  Nature." 

This  holiday,  revealing  tantalizing  glimpses,  tarries ; 
many  stormy  days  still  intervene.  All  this  is  observed, 
painted,  and,  above  all,  felt ;  this  young  child  of  the 
South  draws  from  some  indescribable  native  sadness  a 
special  instinct  for  understanding  and  loving,  from  the 


26  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

first,  the  nature  of  this  North,  neighbor  of  the  tem- 
pest. 

"  March  Wi. — A  snowy  day.  A  southeast  wind  curls 
the  snow  in  eddies,  in  great  whirls  of  a  dazzhng  white- 
ness. It  melts  as  it  falls.  Here  we  are  transported,  as 
it  were,  into  the  heart  of  winter,  after  a  few  spring  smiles. 
The  wind  is  cold  enough ;  the  little  singing-birds,  new- 
comers, shiver,  and  the  flowers,  too.  The  chinks  of  the 
partitions  and  sashes  wail  as  in  January ;  and  I,  in  my 
poor  wrapper,  shrink  into  myself  like  Nature. 

"  (^th. — More  snow,  hail,  blasts,  cold.  Poor  Brit- 
tany, thou  sorely  needest  a  little  verdure  to  brighten  thy 
sombre  face.  Oh  !  doff  quickly,  then,  thy  hooded  win- 
ter cloak,  and  let  me  see  thee  take  thy  light  garment  of 
spring,  tissue  of  leaves  and  flowers.  When  shall  I 
behold  the  skirts  of  thy  robe  fluttering  at  the  will  of  the 
winds  ? 

"11//2;. — It  has  snowed  all  night.  My  shutters, 
poorly  fastened,  allowed  me  glimpses,  as  soon  as  I  rose, 
of  that  great  sheet  of  white  which  had  been  silently 
spread  over  the  fields.  The  black  trunks  of  the  trees 
rise  like  columns  of  ebony  from  the  ivory-paved  court  of 
a  temple  ;  this  severe  and  sharp  contrast,  and  a  certain 
dejected  manner  in  the  woods,  make  one  very  sad. 
Naught  is  heard  ;  not  a  living  thing,  save  a  few  sparrows, 
who  take  refuge,  peeping  as  they  go,  in  the  fir-trees  that 
stretch  their  long  arms  laden  with  snow.  The  interior 
of  these  bushy  trees  is  impervious  to  frost ;  it  is  a  shel- 
ter prepared  by  Providence  ;  the  little  birds  know  it  well. 

"  I  have  visited  our  primroses  :  each  was  bearing  its 
little  burden  of  snow,  and  bending  its  head  under  the 
weight.  These  pretty  flowers,  so  richly  colored,  present- 
ed a  charming  effect  under  their  Vv'hite  hoods.     I  saw 


"^  Memoir^  by  M,  Sainte  Beuve,  27 

whole  tufts  of  them  covered  with  a  single  block  of  snow ; 
all  these  laughing  flowers,  thus  veiled,  and  leaning  the 
one  against  the  other,  seemed  like  a  group  of  young 
girls  overtaken  by  a  shower,  and  getting  to  shelter  under 
a  white  apron." 

This  recalls  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre.  Gu^rin,  with- 
out any  design,  spontaneously,  and  by  the  affinity  of 
talent,  is  of  his  school.  At  this  very  time  he  was  finish- 
ing the  perusal  of  his  l^tudes  de  la  Natiire^  and  fresh 
from  the  flavor  of  its  charm  :  "  It  is  one  of  those  books 
we  wish  would  never  end.  There  is  little  to  be  gained 
from  it  for  science,  but  much  for  poetiy,  for  the  elevation 
of  the  soul,  and  the  contemplation  of  Nature.  This  book 
sets  free  and  enlightens  a  faculty  which  we  all  have,  how- 
ever veiled,  vague,  and  almost  totally  bereft  of  energy ; 
the  faculty  which  gathers  the  beauty  of  Nature,  and 
hands  it  over  to  the  soul."  And  he  dwells  upon  this 
second  work  of  reflecting,  which  spiritualizes,  which 
blends  and  harmonizes  into  unity  and  subordinates  to 
one  idea  the  actual  features,  once  brought  together. 
This  is  precisely  his  own  method  :  in  the  faithful  pictures 
of  Nature  which  he  offers  us,  man,  the  soul,  is  always  in 
the  foreground :  it  is  life  reflected  and  interpreted  by 
life.  His  slightest  sketches  have  thus  their  meaning  and 
their  charm. 

"  \^th  {March). — Took  a  walk  in  the  forest  of  Coet- 
quen.  Happened  upon  a  place  remarkable  for  its  wild- 
ness  :  the  road  descends  with  a  sudden  pitch  into  a  little 
ravine,  where  flows  a  little  brook  over  a  slaty  bed,  which 
gives  its  waters  a  blackish  hue,  disagreeable  at  first,  but 
which  ceases  to  be  so  when  you  have  noted  its  harmony 
with  the  black  trunks  of  the  old  oaks,  the  sombre  ver- 
dure of  the  ivies,  and  its  contrast  with  the  white  ^nd 


28  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

glossy  limbs  of  the  birches.  A  strong  north  wind  swept 
through  the  forest,  and  caused  it  to  utter  deep  roarings. 
The  trees,  under  the  buffets  of  the  wind,  struggled  like 
madmen.  Through  the  branches  we  saw  the  clouds, 
flying  rapidly  in  black  and  grotesque  masses,  and  seem- 
ing lightly  to  graze  the  tops  of  the  trees.  This  great, 
gloomy,  floating  veil,  showed  rents  here  and  there, 
through  which  glided  a  ray  of  sunshine,  which  fell  like 
a  flash  of  lightning  into  the  bosom  of  the  forest.  These 
sudden  passages  of  light  gave  to  the  majestic  depths  of 
shade  a  haggard  and  weird  aspect,  like  a  smile  on  the 
lips  of  the  dead. 

'■'■20th. — The  winter  is  departing  with  a  smile:  it 
bids  us  adieu  with  a  brilliant  sun  shining  in  a  sky  pure 
and  smooth  as  a  Venice  glass.  Another  step  of  Time 
accomplished.  Oh  !  why  can  it  not,  like  the  coursers  of 
the  immortals,  with  four  bounds  reach  the  limits  of  its 
lasting  ? " 

The  methods  of  seeing  and  painting  Nature  are  mani- 
fold, and  I  allow  them  all,  provided  they  possess  truth. 
But  here,  indeed,  are  bits  of  landscape  painting  quite  to 
my  taste  ;  here  is  delicacy,  feeling,  and  accurate  drawing 
all  in  one  j  the  drawing  is  done  from  a  near  view,  upon 
the  spot,  and,  faithful  to  Nature,  is  yet  without  crudity. 
Nothing  betrays  the  pallet.  The  colors  have  all  their 
freshness,  their  truth,  and  also  a  certain  tenderness. 
They  have  penetrated  to  the  interior  mirror,  and  are 
seen  by  reflection.  We  catch  here,  above  all,  an  expres- 
sion ;  we  breath  here  the  soul  of  things. 

"  2Zth  {March). — As  often  as  we  allow  ourselves  to 
penetrate  to  Nature,  our  soul  opens  to  the  most  touch- 
ing impressions.  There  is  something  in  Nature,  whether 
she  decks  herself  in  smiles  during  the  bright  days,  or 


Memoir^  by  M.  Saint e  Beuve,  29 

becomes,  as  in  autumn  and  winter,  pale,  gray,  cold  and 
tearful,  which  stirs  not  only  the  surface  of  the  spirit,  but 
even  its  most  secret  recesses,  and  awakens  a  thousand 
memories  which  have  apparently  no  connection  with  the 
external  aspect,  but  which,  without  doubt,  sustain  a  re- 
lation with  the  soul  of  Nature  by  sympathies  to  us  un- 
known. This  marvellous  power  I  have  experienced 
to-day,  stretched  in  a  grove  of  birches,  and  breathing 
the  warm  air  of  spring. 

^^ April  ^th. — A  beautiful  day  as  one  could  wish: 
some  clouds,  but  only  as  many  as  are  needed  to  give 
picturesqueness  to  the  sky.  They  assume  more  and 
more  their  summer  forms.  Their  scattered  groups  re- 
pose motionless  under  the  sun,  like  flocks  of  sheep  in 
the  pastures,  during  the  heat  of  the  day.  I  have  seen  a 
swallow,  and  I  have  heard  the  bees  humming  over  the 
flowers.  Seating  myself  in  the  sun,  in  order  that  I  may 
be  saturated  to  the  marrow  with  divine  spring,  I  have 
experienced  some  of  the  impressions  of  my  childhood  \ 
for  a  moment  I  have  regarded  the  sky  with  its  clouds, 
the  earth  with  its  forests,  its  songs,  its  murmurings,  as 
I  did  then.  This  renewing  of  the  first  aspect  of  things, 
of  the  expression  which  our  first  thoughts  put  upon 
them  is,  to  my  thinking,  one  of  the  sweetest  influences 
of  childhood  on  the  current  of  life." 

But  soon  arise  in  him  conflict  and  doubt.  Guerin, 
at  this  date,  is  still  strictly  Christian.  He  arraigns  his 
soul  for  responding  with  such  liveliness  to  the  insinuat- 
ing delights  of  Nature,  on  a  day  of  sacred  contrition  and 
mourning,  for  this  fifth  of  April  was  a  Good-Friday. 
The  seclusion  of  penitence  within  which  this  Holy  Week 
confines  him,  wearies,  and  he  reproaches  himself  for  it. 
Rule   and   revery  are   at  war  within   him.     He   whose 


30  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

instinct  it  is  to  be  in  motion,  to  wander,  to  chase  the 
infinite  in  the  breathings,  in  the  murmurs  of  winds  and 
of  waters,  in  the  odors  of  budding,  and  the  perfumes  of 
blossoming  flowers,  he  who  could  say  in  planning  jour- 
neys :  "  It  will  be  charming  to  stray  about ;  when  we 
wander,  we  feel  that  we  fulfil  the  true  condition  of 
humanity ;  there  lies,  I  think,  the  secret  of  the  charm — " 
he  tries,  at  this  point  in  his  life,  to  reconcile  Christianity 
with  devotion  to  Nature ;  he  seeks,  if  haply  there  may 
be,  a  mystic  relation  between  the  worship  of  that 
nature  which  culminates  in  the  heart  of  man,  and  sacri- 
fices itself  there  as  on  an  altar,  and  the  eucharistic 
offering  in  the  same  heart.  Vain  effort!  he  attempts 
the  impossible  and  irreconcilable ;  he  will  only  succeed 
in  delaying,  in  his  own  case,  his  near,  irresistible  engulf- 
ment.  For  there  is  no  middle  course :  the  Cross  bars, 
more  or  less,  a  free  view  of  Nature ;  Great  Pan  has 
nothing  in  common  with  the  crucified  Divinity.  A 
certain  distrustful  and  timid  soberness  is  imposed,  as  a 
first  condition,  upon  the  student  of  Christianity.  And 
Guerin,  on  the  contrary,  offers  no  resistance  to  this 
temptation ;  all  the  chance  incidents  of  nature,  an  April 
shower,  a  March  flurry,  the  tender  and  capricious  breezes 
of  May,  all  speak  to  him,  lay  hold  of  him,  possess  him, 
transport  him.  In  vain,  he  pauses  in  brief  moments 
and  cries  :  "  Heavens !  hov/  is  it  that  my  repose  is 
affected  by  what  passes  in  the  air,  and  that  my  soul's 
peace  is  thus  surrendered  to  the  caprice  of  the  winds  ? " 
He  ceases  not  to  surrender  himself,  he  abandons  himself 
to  it,  he  intoxicates  himself  with  the  life  of  things,  and 
wishes,  at  intervals,  to  be  merged  in  its  universality  : 

'■'•  April  2^th. — It  has  just  been  raining.     Nature  is 
fresh,  radiant  j  the  earth  seems  to  taste  with  delight  the 


Memoir,  by  M,  Sainte  Beuve,  31 

water  which  brings  it  life.  One  would  say  that  the  birds' 
throats  are  also  refreshed  by  this  rain :  their  song  is 
purer,  more  gushing,  more  i^iercing,  and  vibrates  won- 
derfully in  the  air — now  become  exquisitely  sonorous 
and  echoing.  The  nightingales,  the  bullfinches,  the 
blackbirds,  the  thrushes,  the  orioles,  the  finches,  the 
wrens,  all  sing  and  rejoice.  A  goose,  screaming  like  a 
trumpet,  adds  to  the  charm  by  contrast.  The  motion- 
less trees  seem  to  listen  to  all  these  sounds.  Innumer- 
able apple-trees  in  flower  look,  from  a  distance,  like  balls 
of  snow ;  the  cherry-trees,  also  in  white,  rise  in  pyramids 
or  unfold  in  fans  of  flowers. 

"  The  birds  seem,  at  times,  to  aim  at  those  orches- 
tral effects  in  which  all  the  instruments  mingle  in  a  maze 
of  harmony. 

"  If  it  were  possible  to  identify  ourselves  with  spring, 
to  carry  this  thought  to  the  point  of  believing  that  all  the 
life,  all  the  love  which  leavens  Nature,  culminates  in  our- 
selves ;  to  feel  ourselves  at  once  flower,  verdure,  bird, 
song,  freshness,  elasticity,  delight,  serenity  :  what  would 
become  of  me  ?  There  are  moments  when,  by  dint  of 
concentrating  one's  thoughts  on  this  idea,  and  of  gazing 
intently  on  Nature,  one  seems  to  experience  some  such 
thing." 

A  month  has  elapsed  j  the  period  when  spring,  long 
brooded  and  nursed,  bursts  forth,  no  longer  in  flowers, 
but  in  leaves  j  when  greenness  overflows,  when  there 
takes  place  in  the  space  of  tv/o  or  three  mornings  an 
almost  instantaneous  flood  of  verdure — is  admirably 
given  : 

^^May  3^. — A  joyful  day,  full  of  sunshine ;  a  balmy 
breeze,  perfumes  in  the  air;  in  the  soul,  bliss.  The 
verdure  grows  visibly;  it  has  darted  from  the  garden 


J2 


Maurice  de  Guerin. 


into  the  copses ;  it  has  got  the  upper  hand  all  along  the 
pond ;  it  leaps,  so  to  speak,  from  tree  to  tree,  from 
thicket  to  thicket,  in  the  fields,  and  on  the  hillsides,  and 
I  see  where  it  has  already  reached  the  forest,  and  begins 
to  overflow  upon  its  huge  back.  Soon  it  will  have 
spread  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  and  all  these  wide 
spaces  enclosed  by  the  horizon,  will  be  waving  and  mur- 
muring like  a  vast  sea,  a  sea  of  emerald.  A  few  days 
more,  and  we  shall  have  all  the  pomp,  all  the  display  of 
the  vegetable  kingdom." 

And  the  time  when  all  which  was  at  first  but  flower 
without  the  leaf,  is  now  only  germ  and  foliage,  when  the 
loves  of  the  plants  are  over,  and  when  the  nurture  of  the 
fruit  begins  : 

^^ May  22d. — There  are  no  longer  flowers  on  the 
trees.  Their  mission  of  love  fulfilled,  they  are  dead, 
like  a  mother  who  perishes  in  giving  life.  The  fruit  has 
set ;  it  feels  the  influence  of  the  vital  and  reproductive 
energy  which  is  to  throw  upon  the  world  new  individ- 
uals. An  innumerable  generation  actually  hangs  on  the 
branches  of  all  the  trees,  on  the  fibres  of  the  most  insig- 
nificant grasses,  like  babes  on  the  mother's  breast.  All 
these  germs,  incalculable  in  their  number  and  variety, 
are  there,  suspended  between  heaven  and  earth  in  their 
cradle,  and  given  over  to  the  winds,  whose  charge  it  is 
to  rock  these  beings.  Unseen  amid  the  living  forests, 
swing  the  forests  of  the  future.  Nature  is  all  absorbed 
in  the  vast  cares  of  her  maternity." 

Although  heartily  devoted  to  Brittany,  which  he  calls 
the  good  country,  the  child  of  the  South  awakens  at  times 
in  Guerin;  Mignon  recalls  the  blue  sky,  and  the  land 
where  the  olives  bloom.  The  inmate  of  La  Chenaie  is 
not  deluded  by  these  sylvan  pageants,  and  rural  beauties, 


Memoir y  by  M,  Saint e  Beuve.  ^3 

which  are  always  so  prone,  in  that  region,  again  to  be- 
come dry  and  harsh ;  La  Chenaie,  all  Brittany  "  has  the 
air,"  he  says,  "  of  a  gray  and  wrinkled  old  woman,  trans- 
formed by  the  fairies'  wand  into  a  young  and  most  win- 
ning girl  of  sixteen."  But  beneath  the  form  of  the  win- 
ning young  girl,  the  old  woman,  on  certain  days  reappears. 
One  morning  in  the  midst  of  June,  the  fine  weather 
has  vanished,  one  knows  not  whither;  the  west  wind, 
like  a  shepherd,  driving  before  him  his  numberless  flocks 
of  clouds,  permeates  everywhere.  Side  by  side  with 
verdure  is  winter,  and  the  contrast,  moreover,  is  painful ; 
and  even  when  there  is  sunshine,  in  her  days  of  high 
festival,  the  summer  of  Brittany  has  always,  to  his  feel- 
ing, something  gloomy,  veiled,  shut  in.  It  is  like  a 
miser  making  a  display ;  there  is  a  churlishness  in  his 
magnificence. 

"  Give  me  our  sky  of  Languedoc,  so  lavish  in  light, 
so  blue,  so  widely  arched  !  "  Thus  cries,  in  these  days, 
almost  like  an  exile,  he  who  dreams  of  his  soft  nest  at 
Cayla  and  at  Roche  d'Onelle.  In  his  excursions  about 
the  country,  and  when  he  crosses  the  moors,  then  it  is 
that  Nature  appears  to  him  barren  and  cheerless,  in  the 
garb  of  wretchedness  and  poverty ;  but,  for  all  that,  he 
does  not  scorn  her;  on  this  theme  he  has  composed 
some  very  pungent  verses,  in  which  the  ruggedness  of 
the  country  is  truthfully  rendered  ;  he  understands  it  so 
well,  this  ruggedness,  he  clasps  it  so  closely,  that  he 
triumphs  over  it.  Like  the  Cybele  of  the  Homeric 
poem,  who  appeared  at  first  under  the  disguise  of  a 
barren  old  woman  to  the  young  girls  seated  by  the  way- 
side, and  who  was  then  suddenly  transformed  into  the 
fruitful  and  glorious  goddess.  Nature,  in  Brittany,  ends 
by  yielding  to  Gue'rin  all  that  she  possesses  :  if  for  a 

2* 


h 


34  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

moment  he  has  slighted  her,  he  quickly  repents,  and 
she  pardons  him ;  she  ceases  to  appear  ungrateful  in 
his  eyes,  she  becomes  again  as  beautiful  as  it  is  possible 
for  her  to  be  :  the  moor  itself  becomes  animated,  invests 
itself  for  him,  even  in  its  least  details,  with  I  know  not 
what  charm. 

These  last  things  he  says  in  verse,  and  it  is  for  that 
reason  that  I  do  not  quote  them.  As  to  the  verses  of 
Guerin,  they  are  natural,  easy,  flowing,  but  unfinished. 
He  uses  habitually,  and  from  preference,  a  verse  which  I 
know  well,  from  having  attempted  in  my  day  to  introduce 
and  apply  it — the  familiar  Alexandrine,  adapted,  in  his 
use,  to  a  conversational  tone,  permitting  all  the  intrica- 
cies of  a  friendly  talk.  "  Your  poetry  sings  too  much," 
he  wrote  to  his  sister  Eugenie ;  "  it  does  not  talk 
enough."  He  avoids  the  strophe,  as  breaking  too  easily 
into  a  gallop,  and  running  away  with  its  rider  ;  he  avoids 
no  less  the  Lamartinian  verse,  as  rocking  too  gently  its 
dreaming  gondolier.  He  believes  that  much  may  be 
made  of  this  Alexandrine  verse,  which,  well  handled,  is 
not  so  stiff  as  it  appears  to  be ;  which  is  capable  of  so 
many  fine  turns,  and  even  of  charming  carelessness. 
This  whole  theory  appears  to  me  true,  and  it  is  also 
mine.  It  is  only  in  the  application  that  Guerin  is  at 
fault,  as  we  ourselves  may  have  been  ;  but  he  errs  more 
than  is  necessary,  and  far  too  much.  Above  all,  he  trusts 
too  much  to  chance  ;  and  what  he  said  of  another  of  his 
friends  may  be  said  of  him,  that  his  verse  gushes  from 
him  ^^  like  water  from  a  fountain.^''  He  has  detached 
lines  which  are  very  happy,  very  free ;  but  his  style 
drags,  is  tedious,  and  becomes  complicated  like  prose. 
He  knows  not  how  to  prune,  to  time  his  periods,  and, 
after  a  certain  number  of  uneven,  irregular  verses,  to 


Memoir y  by  M,  Saint e  Beuve,  35 

restore  the  full  tone  and  mark  the  rhythm.  The  name 
of  Brizeux,  the  Breton  poet,  is  naturally  associated  with 
that  of  Gudrin,  the  Breton  landscape-painter.  Gudrin 
must  have  read  the  Marie  of  Brizeux,  but  I  do  not  see 
that  he  speaks  of  it.  We  must  exaggerate  nothing  :  this 
pretty  Marie^  in  her  first  dress,  was  only  a  little  peasant, 
dressed  up  according  to  the  custom  and  standard  of 
Paris.  It  was  not  until  later  that  Brizeux  thought  seri- 
ously of  making  himself  Breton.  In  the  poem  by  him 
which  bears  this  title,  Les  Bretons,  he  has  succeeded  in 
two  or  three  grand  and  forcible  pictures  ;  as  a  whole,  it 
lacks  interest,  and  is  destitute  of  charm.  I  do  not  speak 
of  the  various  collections  which  have  followed,  and 
which,  save  some  rather  rare  fragments,  are  only  the  un- 
promising efforts,  more  and  more  abrupt,  of  an  arid  and 
exhausted  vein.  Now,  what  Guerin  had  preeminently, 
was  impulse,  raciness,  charm,  breadth,  and  power.  The 
author  of  the  Ce?itaiir  is  of  another  order  than  the  dis- 
creet lover  of  Marie.  But  Brizeux,  in  verse,  is  artistic, 
and  Guerin  is  not  sufficiently  so.  Brizeux  has  the  sci- 
ence of  poetry ;  and  if  he  allows  his  impulse  too  little 
play ;  if,  for  good  reasons,  he  never  sets  it  free  ;  if  he 
never  has  what  the  generous  poet  Lucretian  calls  the  mag- 
num immissis  ceriameft  hahenis — the  headlong  charge  with 
loosened  rein — at  least  he  keeps  the  folds  of  his  garment 
well  girdled,  and  has  skilful  and  charming  ways  of  clasp- 
ing it. 

In  1833,  Guerin,  this  Breton  by  adoption,  who  was 
then  far  more  of  a  Breton  in  spirit  than  Brizeux,  lived  in 
the  full  enjoyment  of  this  rural,  tranquil,  poetic,  and 
Christian  life,  whose  vital  current  pulsated  through  his 
genius,  and  diffused  itself  freshly  in  his  private  writings. 
I  am  aware  he  had  his  troubles,  his  failures  of  the  inner 


^6  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

life  :  we  shall  return,  if  only  to  point  it  out,  to  this  weak 
side  of  his  soul  and  his  will.  His  talent,  later,  will  be 
more  manly,  at  the  same  time  that  his  conscience  is  less 
disturbed  ;  here,  he  appears  in  all  the  delicate  bloom  of 
youth.  There  was  a  single  moment  when  every  tint 
could  be  noted,  when  his  ideas  harmonized  and  blended. 
Imagine,  at  La  Chenaie,  which  was  still  called  a  religious 
house,  on  Easter-day  of  this  year  1833 — the  seventh  of 
April — a  radiant  morning,  and  the  touching  scene  then 
for  the  last  time  enacted.  He  who  was  still  the  Abbd 
Lamennais  was  celebrating  the  Easter  mass  in  the 
chapel — his  last  mass — and  was  administering  the  Com- 
munion with  his  own  hand  to  a  few  young  disciples,  who, 
still  faithful,  believed  him  faithful  also  :  they  were 
Guerin,  Elie  de  Kertanguy,  Francois  du  Breil  de  Mar- 
zan,  a  fervent  young  poet,  overjoyed  in  bringing  to  the 
holy  table  a  new  recruit,  a  friend  older  by  ten  years — 
Hippolyte  de  la  Morvonnais,  himself  a  poet.  There 
were  at  this  time  at  La  Chenaie,  or  on  the  point  of 
arriving,  certain  men  whose  meeting  and  intercourse  was 
a  source  of  pure  joy  :  the  Abbe  Gerbet,  a  gentle  soul  of 
tender  affability  ;  the  Abbe  Cazales,  a  loving  heart,  and 
wise  in  the  ways  of  the  inner  life  ;  other  names,  some  of 
which  have  been  since  noted  in  divers  branches  of  sci- 
ence :  Eugene  Bore,  Frederic  de  la  Provostaye — alto- 
gether a  pious  and  learned  band.  Who  would  have  said 
then,  to  those  who  still  clustered  round  the  master,  that 
he  who  had  just  administered  the  communion  to  them 
with  his  own  hand,  would  administer  it  no  more,  would 
refuse  it  himself  forever,  and  would  soon  have  for  a  de- 
vice— only  too  appropriate — an  oak  shattered  by  the  tempest, 
with  this  haughty  motto  :  "/  break,  and  bend  not  P' — a 
Titanic  device,  presumptuous  as  Capaneus. 


Memoir^  by  M,  Saint e  Beuve,  37 

"  Oh,  if  we  had  then  been  told  it,  what  a  shudder 
would  have  passed  through  our  veins  ! "  wrote  one  of 
them.  But  for  us,  whose  only  business  here  is  to  speak 
of  literature,  it  is  impossible  not  to  notice  such  a  mem- 
orable epoch  in  the  religious  history  of  the  time,  not  to 
connect  therewith  the  talent  of  Guerin,  and  not  to  regret 
that  the  impetuous  master-mind,  which  was  already 
brewing  storms,  had  not  then  done  as  did  the  obscure 
disciple  standing  in  the  shadow  of  his  wing  :  that  he  had 
not  opened  his  heart  and  his  ear  to  some  strains  of  the 
pastoral  flute  ;  that,  instead  of  letting  himself  loose  in 
imagination  upon  society,  and  seeing  in  it  only  hell,  dun- 
geons, cellars,  sinks  of  iniquity  (visions  which  constantly 
came  back  and  beset  him),  he  had  not  more  frequently 
looked  toward  Nature,  there  to  soften  and  calm  himself 
And  yet,  this  same  M.  Lamennais  wrote,  some  months 
after,  to  one  of  his  religious  friends  in  Italy :  "  You  are 
on  the  threshold  of  spring,  earlier  than  in  France,  in  the 
country  that  you  inhabit ;  I  hope  that  it  will  have  a  hap- 
py influence  upon  your  health.  Abandon  yourself  to  all 
the  sweetness  of  this  season  of  renewal ;  be  a  flower 
with  the  flowers.  We  lose,  by  our  own  fault,  a  part — the 
greatest  part — of  the  blessings  of  the  Creator  ;  He  sur- 
rounds us  with  His  gifts,  and  we  refuse  to  enjoy  them  by 
I  know  not  what  dreary  determination  to  torment  our- 
selves. In  the  midst  of  an  atmosphere  of  perfumes 
which  emanates  from  Him,  we  make  one  for  ourselves, 
composed  of  all  the  deadly  vapors  that  our  cares,  our 
anxieties,  and  our  griefs  exhale — fatal  bell  of  the  diver 
which  isolates  us  in  the  bosom  of  a  vast  ocean." 

And  who,  pray,  had  taken  his  post  in  this  bell,  and 
liked  to  stay  there  better  than  himself? 

I  have  still  something  to  say  upon  this  position  of 


38  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

Gudrin  at  La  Chenaie  and  in  Brittany,  upon  this  nursing 
season  of  his  talents. 

Since  I  have  spoken  of  Lamennais  at  this  date  of 
1833,  and  such  as  he  still  appeared  in  the  eyes  of  this 
faithful  circle,  how  is  it  possible  to  avoid  calling  atten- 
tion to  the  portrait  that  Guerin  has  sketched  of  him,  in  a 
letter  of  the  sixteenth  of  May  to  M.  de  Bayne  de  Rays- 
sac,  one  of  his  southern  friends  ?  It  is  decidedly  the 
most  living,  speaking  likeness  of  that  side  of  Lamennais 
in  which,  by  merely  reading  him,  it  is  difficult  to  believe  ; 
one  view  of  a  soul  which  appeared  to  forget  itself  en- 
tirely in  conversation,  so  gay  and  charming  was  it,  and 
which  then  would  be  so  quickly  eclipsed  that  his  brow 
would  wrinkle  and  his  countenance  suddenly  grow  dark. 
Guerin  shows  him  to  us  as  he  saw  him,  in  his  happiest 
mood,  and  sometimes  in  the  pride  of  his  strength,  but 
without  the  dark  tints.  The  letters  of  Guerin  to  his 
friends  serve  to  fill  out  the  impressions  noted  in  his  jour- 
nal during  this  time  ;  and  some  of  the  pages  of  this  jour- 
nal are  themselves  only  extracts  from  his  letters  which 
seemed  to  him,  before  passing  from  his  hand,  deserving 
of  being  copied.  In  fact,  the  artist,  the  painter  in  him, 
boldly  making  his  studies,  was  trying  his  hand.  One  of 
the  holidays  he  most  anticipated,  which  he  had  promised 
himself  from  his  first  arrival  in  Brittany,  was  a  little  trip 
to  the  seaside.  On  the  twenty-eighth  of  March,  in  a 
walk  pushed  further  than  usual  with  the  Abb^  Gerbet 
and  another  companion,  he  had  obtained  his  first  glimpse 
to  the  north,  from  the  summit  of  a  hill,  of  the  bay  of 
Cancale,  its  waters  sparkling  in  the  distance,  and  mark- 
ing the  horizon  with  a  luminous  bar.  But  the  actual 
journey  which  enabled  him  to  exclaim,  "At  last,  I  have 
seen  the  ocean  ! "  was  not  accomplished  until  the  elev- 


Memoir y  by  M,  Saint e  Beuve.  39 

enth  of  April.  That  day,  the  Thursday  after  Easter,  he 
set  out,  at  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  with  fine  weather 
and  a  fresh  breeze,  on  foot,  in  company  with  Edmond  de 
Cazales,  who  had  not  yet  taken  orders.  They  had  not 
less  than  six  or  seven  leagues  to  go  ;  but  travelling 
towards  a  great  goal,  and  travelling  thither  by  a  long 
route,  with  a  friend,  is  a  twofold  happiness.  Guerin  felt 
both,  so  he  has  told  us  :  "  It  is  a  preeminent  pleasure  to 
travel — to  visit  the  ocean  with  so  congenial  a  travelling 
companion.  Our  conversation  flowed,  as  it  were,  a 
steady  stream,  from  La  Chenaie  to  Saint  Malo ;  and,  our 
six  leagues  accomplished,  I  could  have  wished  to  see  still 
before  us  a  long  stretch  of  road  ;  for,  indeed,  conversa- 
tion is  one  of  those  sweet  things  that  we  wish  to  prolong 
forever."  He  gives  us  an  idea  of  these  interviews,  em- 
bracing the  world  of  the  heart  with  that  of  nature,  and 
rambling  through  the  romance,  the  recollections,  the 
hopes,  and  all  the  charming  studies  of  youth.  These 
pleasant  talks,  I  imagine,  resembled  in  spirit  what  must 
have  been  those  of  Basil  and  Gregory  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Athens,  and  those  of  Augustine  and  his  friends 
on  the  shores  of  Ostia.  The  beauty  of  the  picturesque 
descriptions,  of  the  sea-sketches  which  follow,  is  thereby 
enhanced  ;  these  lofty  communings  furnish  the  sky  of 
the  picture. 

The  last  days  which  Guerin  passed  at  La  Chenaie 
were  full  of  pleasure,  but  a  pleasure  that  was  often  dis- 
turbed j  he  felt,  in  fact,  that  this  life  of  retirement  was 
drawing  to  a  close,  and  that  the  vacation  would  bring  for 
him  the  necessity  of  making  a  decision.  He  enjoyed  so 
much  the  more,  when  his  imagination  permitted,  the  uni- 
form and  deep  calm  of  the  last  hours. 

The  seventh  of  September,  at  four  o'clock  in  the 


40  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

afternoon,  he  went  up  to  the  chamber  of  M.  Feli,  and 
bade  him  good-by.  After  a  nine  months'  sojourn,  "the 
gates  of  the  Httle  paradise  of  La  Chenaie  closed  behind 
him."  The  ambiguous  and  distressing  relations  of  M. 
de  Lamennais  with  the  diocesan  authority,  had  of  late 
become  more  complicated,  and  it  was  found  expedient  to 
break  up  the  little  school.  Guerin,  however,  did  not  yet 
leave  Brittany,  and  remained  there  until  the  end  of  Janu- 
ary, 1834;  now  at  La  Brousse,  in  the  family  of  M.  de 
Marzan ;  now  at  Le  Val  de  1' Arguenon,  in  the  retreat  of 
his  friend  Hippolyte  de  la  Morvonnais ;  now  at  Mor- 
dreux,  with  the  latter's  father-in-law.  Here  occurred  a 
new  and  important  crisis  in  his  life.  He  had  brought  to 
La  Chenaie  a  secret  heart-trouble — I  do  not  say  a  pas- 
sion, but  a  sentiment.  A  view  of  certain  beeches  which 
he  could  see  from  his  window  towards  the  pond,  and 
which  recalled  painfully  sweet  recollections,  revived  this 
sentiment.  Some  nights  he  dreamed ;  listen  to  one  of 
his  dreams  : 

'•^  June  \^th. — '•Strange  dream  !^  I  dreamed  that  I 
was  alone  in  a  vast  cathedral.  I  seemed  to  be  in  the 
presence  of  God,  and  in  that  state  of  the  soul  in  which 
one  is  conscious  only  of  God  and  of  oneself,  when  a  voice 
arose.  This  voice — the  voice  of  a  woman,  infinitely 
sweet — nevertheless  filled  the  whole  church  like  a  vast 
chorus.  I  recognized  it  at  once  ;  it  was  the  voice  of 
Louise,  ^silver-sweet  sowtdingJ  " 

Such  dreams,  which  recall  those  of  the  youthful 
Dante,  and  of  the  Vita  JViiova,  belonged  only  to  the 
intellectual  heights  of  his  nature,  and  were  susceptible  of 
cure.  And  if  we  should  say  here  all  that  we  think, 
Guerin  was  not  made  for  a  great  and  passionate  suffering 
of  love.     One  day,  some  years  after,  reading  the  letters 


Memoir y  by  M,  Saint e  Beuve,  41 

of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse,  and  finding  in  them  a  passion  by 
him  unfelt,  he  was  greatly  affected,  and  was  surprised  at 
his  emotion  :  "  In  truth,"  said  he,  "  I  knew  not  there 
existed  an  imagination  so  tender,  which  could  thus  agi- 
tate my  heart.  Is  it  that  I  know  not  the  measure  of  this 
heart?  It  is  not  made  for  that  passion  which  says, 
*  Let  me  love,  let  me  see  you,  or  cease  to  exist ! '  "  No 
circumstance  of  his  life,  not  even  the  inclination  which 
determined  his  marriage,  has  ever  contradicted  this  judg- 
ment which  he  passed  upon  himself ;  he  loved  only  on 
the  surface,  and,  as  it  were,  outside  the  inner  curtain  of 
his  soul ;  its  depths  remained  mysterious  and  sacred.  I 
should  say  that  he,  the  lover  of  Nature,  felt  the  univer- 
sality of  things  too  deeply  to  love  any  single  object. 
However  this  may  be,  he  had  a  pang  at  that  time ;  and 
finding  himself,  on  leaving  lonely  La  Chenaie,  in  the  ten- 
der home-circle  of  Hippolyte  de  la  Morvonnais  and  his 
young  wife,  this  sorrow  was  healed.  He  was  one  of 
those  whom  the  friendly  sympathy  of  a  young  woman 
soothes  rather  than  excites.  The  pure  friendship  of  the 
chaste  wife,  and  the  happiness  of  which  he  was  witness, 
without  effacing  or  banishing  the  other  image,  caused  it 
to  fade  into  a  faint  shadow.  Everything  came  right  j 
and  Guerin,  on  the  eve  of  plunging  into  the  m^lee  of  the 
world,  enjoyed  some  months  of  perfect  peace. 

The  sketches  in  which  he  reproduces  those  autumn 
and  winter  days  passed  by  the  side  of  the  sea,  in  this 
hospitable  home,  in  this  "  TMbaide  des  Greves"  as  La 
Morvonnais  rather  ambitiously  called  it,  are  beautiful 
pages,  which  rank,  by  their  innate  force,  with  the  best 
that  we  know  in  this  style.  The  thrilling  contrast  of 
this  peaceful  fireside  with  the  almost  incessant  storms  of 
the  ocean — sometimes  that  other  contrast,  no  less  strik- 


42  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

ing,  between  the  calm  sea,  the  slumber  of  the  fields,  and 
the  stormy  heart  of  the  beholder — give  to  the  different 
pictures  all  their  life  and  variety  : 

*'  And  see  how  full  of  goodness  Providence  is  to  me ! 
For  fear  that  the  sudden  transition  from  the  mild  and 
tempered  air  of  a  religious  and  solitary  life  to  the  torrid 
zone  of  the  world  should  try  my  soul  too  sorely,  it  has 
led  me,  on  leaving  the  holy  retreat,  into  a  home  standing 
on  the  confines  of  the  two  regions,  where,  without  being 
in  solitude,  one  still  belongs  not  to  the  world ;  a  house 
whose  windows,  on  one  side,  open  upon  the  plain  where 
sways  the  tumult  of  man,  and,  on  the  other,  upon  a 
desert  where  chant  the  servants  of  God  ;  on  one  side 
upon  the  ocean,  on  the  other  upon  the  woods  :  and  this 
figure  is  a  reality,  for  the  house  is  built  upon  the  border 
of  the  sea.  I  wish  to  record  here  the  history  of  my 
sojourn  in  it,  for  the  days  passed  here  are  full  of  happi- 
ness ;  and  I  know  that,  in  the  future,  I  shall  turn  back 
many  a  time  to  reperuse  their  vanished  joy.  A  religious 
man  and  a  poet;  a  woman  so  well  fitted  to  him  that 
they  seem  but  a  twofold  soul ;  a  child  who  is  named  for 
her  mother,  Marie^  and  the  first  rays  of  whose  love 
and  intelligence  are  piercing,  like  a  star,  the  white  cloud 
of  childhood  ;  a  simple  life,  in  an  old  house  ;  the  ocean, 
morning  and  evening,  sending  us  its  harmonies  ;  finally, 
a  traveller  descending  from  Carmel  to  go  to  Babylon, 
who,  laying  down  his  staff  and  sandals,  has  seated  him- 
self at  the  hospitable  door  ;  here  is  material  for  a  biblical 
poem,  if  I  could  write  things  as  I  can  feel  them." 

I  do  not  miss  this  biblical  poem  ;  he  will  tell  us 
enough  about  it,  even  in  saying  that  he  knows  not  how. 
By-and-by  we  shall  have  the  finest  page  of  it ;  but  first, 
let  us  enjoy  with  him  the  view  of  a  sea  in  commotion^ 


Memoir^  by  M,  Sainte  Beuve,  43 

and,  at  the  same  time,  of  the  human  soul  contemplating 
it :  ^^  ^'^'J^- 

^  Yesterday  the  wind  blew  furiously  from  the  west. 
I  have  seen  the  sea  in  commotion  ;  but  this  tumult,  sub- 
lime as  it  is,  is  far  inferior,  to  my  taste,  to  the  view  of 
the  ocean  calm  and  blue.  But  why  say  that  the  one  is 
not  equal  to  the  other  ?  Who  could  measure  these  two 
sublime  sights,  and  say.  The  second  surpasses  the  first  ? 
We  must  simply  say.  My  soul  finds  more  pleasure  in  the 
calm  than  in  the  storm.  Yesterday  one  wide  battle 
waged  on  the  watery  plains.  To  see  the  leaping  waves, 
the  thought  would  come  of  those  countless  squad- 
rons of  Tartars  galloping  incessantly  over  the  plains  of 
Asia.  The  entrance  to  the  bay  is  guarded,  as  it  were, 
by  a  chain  of  granite  islets.  It  was  glorious  to  see  the 
surges  rushing  to  the  assault,  and  hurling  themselves 
frantically,  with  frightful  clamors,  against  those  masses  of 
rock  j  to  see  them  take  their  line  of  attack,  and  vie  with 
each  other  which  should  first  surmount  the  black  head 
of  the  reefs.  The  boldest,  or  the  most  agile,  vaulted 
over  with  a  loud  shout ;  the  others,  lumbering  on  more 
awkwardly,  dashed  against  the  rock,  flinging  showers  of 
spray  of  a  dazzling  whiteness,  and  fell  back  with  a  low, 
muffled  growling,  like  watch-dogs  beaten  back  by  the 
traveller's  staff.  We  witnessed  these  wild  struggles  from 
the  top  of  a  cliff,  where  we  found  it  difficult  to  withstand 
the  fury  of  the  wind.  There  we  were,  with  bodies  bent 
forward,  legs  planted  apart  to  give  a  wider  base  for  re- 
sisting with  greater  advantage,  and  both  hands  clutching 
our  hats  to  keep  them  on  our  heads.  The  vast  tumult  of 
the  sea,  the  clamorous  rush  of  the  waves,  the  equally 
rapid  but  silent  sweep  of  the  clouds,  the  sea-birds  hover- 
ing in  the  sky  and  balancing  their  slender  bodies  be- 


44  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

tween  two  arched  wings  that  seemed  to  spread  indefi- 
nitely— this  entire  assemblage  of  wild  and  echoing  har- 
monies, all  centring  in  the  souls  of  two  beings  five  feet 
high,  planted  upon  the  crest  of  a  cliff,  shaken  like  leaves 
by  the  violence  of  the  wind,  and  hardly  more  visible  in 
that  immensity  than  two  birds  perched  upon  a  clod  of 
earth — oh !  it  was  something  mysterious  and  awful — one 
of  those  mingled  moments  of  sublime  excitement  and 
profound  meditation,  when  the  soul  and  Nature,  drawing 
themselves  to  their  full  height,  confront  each  other. 

"  A  few  steps  from  us,  a  group  of  children,  sheltered 
behind  a  rock,  tended  a  flock  scattered  over  the  bluffs  of 
the  coast. 

"  Throw  into  this  sea-picture  a  ship  in  danger,  all  is 
changed  :  we  see  only  the  ship.  Happy  he  who  can  con- 
template Nature  waste  and  uninhabited  !  Happy  he  who 
can  see  her  abandoned  to  her  terrible  sports  without 
danger  to  any  living  being !  Happy  he  who  beholds 
from  the  top  of  a  mountain  the  lion  bounding  and  roar- 
ing in  the  plain,  when  no  traveller,  nor  even  a  gazelle,  is 
haply  passing  !  That  happiness,  Hippolyte,  we  had  yes- 
terday ;  let  us  thank  Heaven  for  it.^/ 

Have  the  English  fireside  poets — Cowper,  Words- 
worth— ever  described  more  deliciously  the  joys  of  a 
pure  home,  and  its  domestic  happiness — that  remem- 
brance of  Eden — than  the  traveller  who,  sitting  for  a  mo- 
ment under  a  blessed  roof,  has  done  in  these  words  : 

"20//^. — I  havfe  never  enjoyed  with  so  much  intimacy 
and  seclusion  the  happiness  of  home  life.  Never  has 
the  perfume  which  is  wafted  through  all  the  rooms  of  a 
religious  and  happy  house  so  completely  enveloped  me. 
It  is  like  a  cloud  of  invisible  incense  that  I  breathe  con- 
tinually.    All  these  minute  details  of  familiar  life,  whose 


Memoir^  by  M.  Sainte  Beuve.  45 

successive  links  constitute  my  day,  are  so  many  shades 
of  a  perpetual  delight,  which  goes  on  unfolding  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end  of  the  day. 

'"■'^The  morning  greeting,  which  renews  in  some  sort 
the  pleasure  of  my  first  arrival,  (for  we  accost  each  other 
in  nearly  the  same  form  of  words,  and,  besides,  the  separa- 
tion at  night  is  somewhat  typical  of  longer  separations, 
like  them,  full  of  dangers  and  uncertainties ;)  the  breakfast 
hour,  when  we  forthwith  celebrate  the  joy  of  reunion  ;  the 
subsequent  walk,  a  sort  of  greeting  and  adoration  that 
we  offer  to  Nature  ;  our  return,  and  our  seclusion  in  an 
old  wainscoted  chamber,  looking  out  on  the  sea,  inacces- 
sible to  the  noise  of  the  house — in  a  word,  a  perfect 
sanctuary  of  labor  ;  dinner,  announced  to  us  not  by  the 
sound  of  the  bell,  which  savors  too  much  of  the  college 
or  a  fine  house,  but  by  a  gentle  voice  ;  the  gayety,  the 
lively  jests,  the  rippling  flow  of  talk,  rising  and  falling 
during  the  entire  meal ;  the  crackling  fire  of  dry  brush 
around  which  we  draw  our  chairs  just  afterwards  ;  the 
tender  things  we  say  in  the  warmth  of  the  fire,  roaring  as 
we  chat ;  and,  if  the  weather  is  fine,  the  stroll  by  the 
side  of  the  ocean,  which  runs  to  welcome  our  party — a 
mother,  her  child  in  her  arms,  the  father  of  the  child, 
and  a  stranger,  these  last  two  each  with  a  stick  in  his 
hand ;  the  rosy  lips  of  the  little  girl  who  prattles  to  the 
tune  of  the  waves,  the  tears  that  she  sometimes  sheds, 
and  the  cries  of  childish  grief  on  the  border  of  the  sea ; 
our  thoughts,  when  we  see  the  mother  and  child  smiling 
at  each  other,  or  the  child  weeping,  and  the  mother  seek- 
ing to  soothe  her  with  the  sweetness  of  her  caresses  and 
her  voice  ;  the  ocean,  which  goes  on  rolling  continuously 
its  waves  and  noises  ;  the  dead  branches  that  we  cut  as 
we  stray  hither  and  thither  in  the  copses,  to  make  a 


46  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

quick  and  cheerful  fire  on  our  return  ;  this  little  experi- 
ment in  woodcraft  which  brings  us  near  to  Nature,  and 
makes  us  think  of  M.  Fall's  peculiar  love  for  the  same 
occupation ;  the  hours  of  study  and  poetic  outpouring, 
which  carry  us  along  to  supper-time  ;  this  meal,  to  which 
we  are  summoned  by  the  same  gentle  voice,  spent  in  the 
same  pleasures  as  the  dinner-hour,  but  less  boisterous, 
because  evening  softens  and  subdues  everything;  the 
evening,  opening  with  the  sparkle  of  a  cheerful  fire,  and 
passing  in  alternate  reading  and  talking,  to  die  away  in 
sleep  :  to  all  the  charms  of  a  day  thus  spent,  add  that 
indescribable,  angelic  beaming,  that  halo  of  peace,  of 
freshness  and  innocence,  diffused  by  the  blonde  hair,  the 
blue  eyes,  the  silvery  voice,  the  laughter,  the  little  know- 
ing poutings  of  a  child  who,  I  feel  certain,  makes  more 
than  one  angel  jealous  ;  who  enchants  you,  bewitches 
you,  makes  you  dotingly  fond  by  a  simple  motion  of  her 
lips — such  is  the  power  of  helplessness  \  to  all  this 
add,  finally,  the  dreams  of  the  imagination,  and  you  will 
still  be  far  from  attaining  the  limit  of  all  these  domestic 
delights/' 

However,  these  family  joys,  too  keenly  felt  by  a  heart 
to  whom  it  was  not  given  to  taste  them  for  himself, 
affected  him  too  tenderly  ;  he  had  arrived,  he  tells  us,  at 
the  pitch  of  weeping  for  a  mere  nothing,  "  as  do  little 
children  and  old  men."  This  continual  calm,  this  pleas- 
ant monotony  of  domestic  life,  prolonged  like  a  sweet 
but  unvarying  note,  had  finished  by  enervating,  by  un- 
duly exalting  him,  by  either  putting  him  beside  himself, 
or  by  placing  him  too  early  in  possession  of  his  own  na- 
ture. Excess  of  tranquillity  was  for  him  a  new  kind  of 
storm  ;  his  soul  was  "  in  peril,"  and  there  was  danger  in 
this  direction  of  an  intoxication  of  languor,  if  he  had  not 


r 


MemoiVy  by  M,  Sainte  Beuve.  47 

found  a  counterpoise,  a  powerful  diversion  in  the  con- 
templation of  Nature,  as  at  other  moments  there  had 
been  danger  that  the  sovereign  attraction,  the  potent 
voice  of  this  Nature,  would  absorb  and  master  him  com- 
pletely. For  Gu^-in's  soul  was  marvellously  sensitive 
and  susceptible,  but  without  safeguard  or  defence  against 
itself.  This  time  he  was  wise  enough  to  turn  aside  in 
time,  and  vary  the  exercise  of  his  sensibility  : 
^  '"I  set  about  studying  her  (Nature)  even  more  closely J^/*- 
than  had  been  my  wont,  and  by  degrees  the  excitement 
subsided  ;  for  there  issued  from  fields,  from  waves,  from 
woods  a  mild  and  wholesome  virtue,  which  penetrated 
my  being  and  changed  all  my  transports  to  melancholy 
dreams.  This  blending  of  the  calm  suggestions  of  Na- 
ture with  the  stormy  ecstasies  of  the  heart  will  beget  a 
state  of  mind  which  I  would  fain  retain,  for  it  is  a  most 
desirable  state  for  a  restless  dreamer  like  myself.  It  is 
like  a  rapture  so  subdued  and  tranquil  that  it  carries  the 
soul  out  of  itself,  without  taking  from  it  the  conscious- 
ness of  a  lingering  and  somewhat  stormy  sadness.  An- 
other result  is,  that  the  soul  is  insensibly  steeped  in  a 
languor  which  deadens  the  keenness  of  every  intellectual 
faculty,  and  lulls  it  into  a  half-sleep  void  of  all  thought, 
in  which,  nevertheless,  it  is  conscious  of  the  faculty  of 
dreaming  the  most  beautiful  things. 

^"Nothing  can  more  faithfully  represent  this  state  of 
the  soul  than  the  evening  this  moment  falling.  Gray 
clouds,  whose  edges  are  slightly  silvered,  are  spread 
uniformly  over  the  v/hole  face  of  the  sky.  The  sun, 
which  vanished  a  few  moments  ago,  has  left  behind  him 
light  enough  to  relieve  for  some  time  the  black  shadows, 
and,  in  a  manner,  to  tone  the  falling  darkness.  The 
winds   are   hushed,  and   the  tranquil  ocean   sends  up, 


48  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

when  I  go  out  on  the  threshold  to  Hsten,  only  a  melo- 
dious murmur  which  breaks  on  the  soul  like  a  beautiful 
wave  on  the  beach.  The  birds,  the  first  to  be  won  by 
the  influence  of  night,  take  their  flight  towards  the  woods, 
and  their  wings  are  heard  rustling  in  the  clouds.  The 
copse  which  covers  the  whole  hillside  of  Le  Val,  which 
has  echoed  all  day  with  the  warbling  of  the  wren,  with 
the  cheerful  whistle  of  the  woodpecker,  and  with  the 
various  notes  of  a  multitude  of  birds,  has  no  longer  any 
sound  in  its  paths  and  thickets,  save  the  shrill  cry  of 
blackbirds  chasing  each  other  in  their  play,  after  all  other 
birds  have  their  heads  under  their  wings.  The  noise  of 
man,  always  the  last  to  be  hushed,  gradually  dies  away 
along  the  fields.  The  universal  hum  ceases,  and  one 
hears  scarcely  a  sound  except  what  comes  from  the 
towns  and  hamlets,  where,  far  into  the  night,  are  heard 
the  crying  of  children  and  the  barking  of  dogs.  Silence 
enfolds  me ;  everything  seeks  repose,  except  my  pen, 
which  haply  disturbs  the  slumber  of  some  living  atom, 
asleep  in  the  leaves  of  my  notebook,  for  it  makes  its  own 
little  noise  scratching  these  foolish  thoughts.  Well !  let 
let  it  cease,  then ;  for  what  I  write,  have  written,  and 
shall  write,  can  never  be  weighed  against  the  sleep  of  an 
atom.)' 

-  Surely,  that  is  as  beautiful  as  beautiful  verses.  They 
talk  of  the  Lake  poets  and  their  poetry,  and  La  Morvon- 
nais,  about  this  time,  was  very  much  taken  up  with  them, 
so  far  as  to  go  and  visit  Wordsworth  at  his  residence  at 
Rydal  Mount,  near  the  Lakes  of  Westmoreland,  and  to 
carry  on  a  correspondence  with  that  great  and  tranquil 
soul,  that  patriarch  of  the  domestic  muse.  Gudrin,  with- 
out giving  so  much  thought  to  it,  was  more  like  the  Lake 
poets,  without  in  any  way  aiming  to  imitate  them.     There 


Memoir^  by  M.  Sainte  Beuve,  49 

is  in  their  writings  no  purer  pastoral  sonnet,  there  is  in 
the  poetic  rambles  of  Cowper  no  more  transparent  pic- 
ture, than  the  page  we  have  just  read,  in  its  painting, 
at  once  so  true  and  so  tender,  so  clear  and  so  emotional. 
The  modest  sentiment  with  which  he  closes,  and  in  which 
he  takes  thought  for  the  smallest  living  atom,  might  be 
the  envy  of  a  gentle  poet  of  India. 

But  it  was  for  Guerin  to  tear  himself  from  this  soli- 
tude, where  he  was  on  the  point  of  forgetting  himself  and 
of  tasting  too  freely  the  fruit  of  the  lotos.  In  a  last  walk, 
on  a  smiling  winter  afternoon,  on  those  cliffs,  along  the 
path  which  so  many  times  had  led  him  thither  through 
the  boxwood  and  the  hazels,  he  breathes  out  his  adieus 
and  carries  away  all  he  can  of  the  soul  of  things.  The 
next  day  he  is  at  Caen ;  a  few  days  after,  at  Paris.  His 
timid  nature,  as  trembling  and  shrinking  as  that  of  a 
fiightened  deer,  experiences,  on  his  arrival,  a  secret 
horror.     He  distrusts  himself,  he  fears  mankind. 

"Paris,  February  1st,  1834.  —  My  God!  close  my 
eyes ;  preserve  me  from  seeing  all  this  multitude,  the 
sight  of  whom  gives  rise  in  me  to  thoughts  so  bitter,  so 
discouraging.  Grant  that,  in  passing  through  it,  I  may 
be  deaf  to  noise,  inaccessible  to  these  impressions  which 
overwhelm  me  when  traversing  the  crowd  ;  and  to  that 
end  place  before  mine  eyes  an  image,  a  vision  of  things 
that  I  love — a  field,  a  vale,  a  moor,  Le  Cayla,  Le  Val — 
some  natural  object.  I  will  walk  with  looks  fixed  upon 
these  sweet  forms,  and  thus  I  shall  pass,  and  .feel  no 
rude  jostling." 

Here  it  is  highly  proper  to  enter  somewhat  into  the 
secret  of  this  nature  of  Gudrin.  There  was  in  him  a  veri- 
table contradiction.  Through  one  side  of  him,  he  felt  ex- 
ternal nature  passionately,  distractedly ;  he  was  capable  of 
3 


50  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

plunging  into  it  with  boldness,  with  a  magnificent  frenzy ; 
of  realizing  in  it,  through  his  imagination,  the  fabulous 
life  of  the  ancient  demi-gods.  On  an  entirely  different 
side,  he  was  meditative,  he  analyzed  himself,  he  took 
himself  up  in  detail,  he  belittled  himself  at  will ;  he  un- 
decked his  soul  with  a  self-depreciating  humility;  he 
belonged  to  those  souls,  so  to  speak,  born  Christian, 
which  have  need  of  self-accusation,  of  repentance,  of 
finding  outside  of  themselves  a  craving  for  pity,  for  com- 
passion ;  who  have  made  confession  early,  and  who  will 
always  have  need  of  confession.  I  have  known  souls 
like  these,  and  it  has  been  my  fortune  to  describe  one 
formerly,  in  a  romance  which  his  secret  affinity  with  the 
character  caused  Guerin  to  receive  with  favor.  He  also 
was,  but  only  in  a  measure,  of  the  race  of  Ren^ ;  in  this 
sense,  that  he  did  not  think  himself  a  superior  nature ; 
indeed,  so  far  from  that,  he  believed  himself  to  be  poor, 
weak,  ^^  contemptible,^^  and,  in  his  best  days,  a  nature 
"  rather  lonely  than  superior : " 

"  To  be  loved  as  I  am,"  murmured  he  to  himself,  "  it 
would  be  necessary  to  meet  a  soul  that  would  be  willing 
to  incline  towards  its  inferior ;  a  strong  soul,  that  would 
bend  the  knee  before  the  feebler,  not  to  worship  it,  but 
to  serve,  to  console  it,  to  protect  it,  as  one  would  a  sick 
man ;  a  soul,  in  short,  gifted  with  a  sensibility  as  hum- 
ble as  profound,  which  would  divest  itself  of  pride,  so 
natural  even  to  love,  sufficiently  to  bury  its  heart  in  an- 
obscure  affection,  which  the  world  would  in  no  wise  com- 
prehend ;  to  consecrate  its  life  to  some  weak  being, 
morbid  and  introspective ;  to  be  content  to  concentrate  all 
its  rays  upon  a  flower  without  brilliancy,  weak  and  always 
trembling ;  which  would  bestow,  indeed,  perfumes  whose 
sweetness  charms  and  penetrates,  but  never  those  which 


Memoir y  by  M,  Saint e  Beuve.  51 

intoxicate   and  exalt    to   the    happy  delirium    of   rap- 
ture." 

His  friends  struggled  as  far  as  possible  against  this 
dispirited  temper,  whose  attacks  he  set  forth  to  them  at 
times,  its  interior  flow  and  reflow,  with  an  exquisite 
delicacy,  with  a  startling  distinctness.  They  urged  him, 
on  entering  this  practical  life,  to  lay  out  for  himself  a 
plan  of  study,  to  be  willing  to  apply  in  order,  and  to 
concentrate  his  intellectual  forces  according  to  a  method, 
and  upon  definite  subjects.  They  thought  at  one  time 
to  make  him  accept  a  chair  of  Comparative  Literature, 
which  there  was  some  talk  of  founding  at  the  college  of 
Juilly,  then  under  the  charge  of  MM.  de  Scorbias  and 
de  Salinis ;  but  this  idea  was  never  carried  out,  and 
Guerin  was  obliged  to  content  himself  with  a  temporary 
class  in  the  college  Stanislas,  and  with  some  lessons 
which  he  gave  here  and  there.  A  cordial  Breton  friend, 
who  happened  to  be  at  Paris  (M.  Paul  Quemper),  had 
undertaken  to  smooth  for  him  the  first  difficulties,  and 
he  succeeded.  This  provision  made  for  actual  necessi- 
ties, Gudrin  betook  himself  all  the  more  in  leisure  hours 
to  the  life  of  the  soul  and  of  fancy ;  he  overflowed  with 
his  peculiar  spirit.  Retired,  as  in  his  burrow^  in  a  little 
garden  in  Anjou  street,  near  Pepiniere  street,  he  trans- 
ported himself  in  imagination  to  the  grand  and  tender 
spectacles  which  he  had  brought  back  from  the  land  of 
the  west.  In  his  weariness  he  embraced  the  stem  of  his 
lilac,  "  as  the  sole  being  in  the  v/orld  against  which  he 
could  lean  his  faltering  nature,  as  the  only  thing  capable 
of  supporting  his  embraces."  But  soon  the  air  of  Paris, 
which  he  must  needs  traverse  every  day,  reacted  upon 
this  forlorn  of  twenty-four  years.  The  attraction  of 
the   world   gradually  won   him ;    new   friendships   w^ere 


52  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

formed,  which,  without  destroying  the  old,  cast  them 
insensibly  into  the  background.  Whoever  had  met  him 
two  years  afterwards,  worldly,  elegant,  ^^fashionable" 
even,  a  talker  able  to  hold  his  own  with  brilliant  talkers, 
would  never  have  said,  to  see  him,  that  he  was  a  worker 
"malgre  lui."  There  is  nothing  like  these  timid  men 
once  let  loose,  as  soon  as  they  have  felt  the  spur.  And 
at  the  same  time  this  talent,  which  he  persisted  in  doubt- 
ing, was  constantly  developing  and  growing  bold,  and  at 
last  he  applied  it  to  the  composition  of  themes,  to  creations 
outside  of  himself  The  artist,  properly  so  called,  mani- 
fested itself  in  him. 

And  here  let  the  piety  of  a  sister,  who  has  presided 
over  this  memorial  erected  to  a  tender  genius,  permit  us 
one  reflection.  In  the  just  tribute  paid  to  the  memory 
of  the  beloved  dead,  nothing  unjust  towards  the  living 
should  be  insinuated,  and  an  omission  may  be  an  injus- 
tice. The  three  or  four  years  which  Guerin  spent  in 
Paris,  and  in  which  he  lived  that  life  of  privations  and 
struggle,  of  study  and  of  worldliness,  of  various  relations, 
are  in  no  wise  years  to  be  despised  or  veiled.  This 
life  is  that  which  many  among  us  have  known,  and  which 
they  still  lead.  He  lost  on  one  side  doubtless,  he  gained 
on  the  other.  He  w^as  in  a  measure  unfaithful  to  the 
freshness  of  his  youthful  impressions ;  but,  like  all  the 
unfaithful  who  are  not  too  much  so,  he  expanded  only 
the  better  for  it.  Talent  is  a  stem  which  takes  root 
willingly  in  virtue,  but  which  often  also  climbs  beyond 
it  and  leaves  it  behind  :  it  is  seldom  even  at  the  moment 
of  blooming  that  it  belongs  wholly  to  it :  it  is  only  at  the 
breath  of  passion  that  it  yields  all  its  perfumes. 

Preserving  all  the  delicacies  of  his  heart,  his  impres- 
sions of  the  country  and  of  landscape,  which  he  revived 


Memoir,  by  M.  Sainte  Beuve,  53 

from  time  to  time  in  hurried  visits,  Gu^rin,  divided  hence- 
forth between  two  worships,  the  God  of  cities  and  the  God 
of  deserts  J  was  the  better  prepared  to  take  up  art,  and  to 
venture  upon  the  composition  of  a  work.  He  continued, 
it  is  true,  to  write  in  his  journal  that  he  beheved  himself 
without  talent ;  he  demonstrated  it  to  himself  in  his  best 
way,  in  his  subtle  and  charming  pages,  which  pages 
themselves  proved  the  existence  of  this  talent.  But  when 
he  ventured  to  say  these  things  to  his  friends,  intellectual 
men,  workers,  of  sprightly  wit  and  animation,  to  d'Aure- 
villy,  to  Scudo,  to  Amedee  Rene"^  and  some  others,  he 
was  unmercifully  rallied  and  taunted,  and,  what  is  better, 
he  was  reassured  against  himself ;  he  unconsciously  bor- 
rowed their  activity  and  boldness.  And  it  is  thus  that 
he  at  last  entered  into  his  full  power.  The  idea  of  the 
Centaur  came  to  him  in  consequence  of  several  visits 
which  he  had  made  with  M.  Trebutien  to  the  Musk  des 
Afitiques.  He  was  then  reading  Pausanias,  and  was 
astonished  at  the  multitude  of  objects  described  by  the 
Greek  antiquary :  "  Greece,"  said  he,  "  is  like  a  vast 
museum."  We  are  witnesses  of  the  two  orders,  the  two 
trains  of  ideas  which  met  and  reunited  in  him  in  a  fruit- 
ful alliance. 

The  Centaur  is  in  no  way  an  imitation  of  Ballanche ; 
it  is  an  original  conception  and  peculiar  to  Guerin.  AVe 
have  seen  how  he  loved  to  diffuse  himself,  and,  as  it  were, 
to  clasp  Nature  in  the  tendrils  of  his  soul ;  he  was,  at  cer- 
tain times,  like  those  wandering  plants  whose  roots  float 

*  In  the  collection  of  poems  published  in  1841  by  M.  Amedee 
Rene,  under  the  title  of  Heures  de  Poesie,  there  is  a  beautiful  piece 
dedicated  ^'■to  the  memory  of  Maurice  de  Gtierht,''^  in  which  his  poetic 
nature  is  very  well  characterized :  he  is  called  sick  for  the  infinite, 
{malade  d  ''infini ). 


54  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

on  the  surface  of  the  sea  at  the  v/ill  of  the  waves.  He  has 
expressed  many  a  time  this  sense  of  the  soul  interfused, 
and  wandering  with  Nature ;  there  were  days  when,  in 
his  love  of  calm,  he  envied  "  the  strong  and  silent  life 
which  holds  sway  under  the  bark  of  the  oak ; "  he 
dreamed  of  some  absurd  metamorphosis  into  a  tree ; 
but  this  destiny  of  old  age,  this  end  worthy  of  Fhilemon 
and  Baucis,  and  even  better  suited  to  the  wisdom  of  a 
Laprade,  jarred  with  the  ardent,  impetuous  current  of  a 
young  heart.  Guerin,  then,  had  sought  until  now  for  his 
form  and  had  not  found  it :  it  was  suddenly  revealed  to 
him  and  personified  in  the  figure  of  the  Centaur. 
These  great  primal  organizations  whose  existence  Lucre- 
tian  denied,  and  in  which  Guerin  almost  makes  us  be- 
lieve ;  in  whom  the  genius  of  man  was  joined  to  animal 
force  still  unsubdued  and  forming  a  part  of  it :  by  whom 
Nature,  hardly  emerged  from  the  waters,  was  overrun, 
taken  possession  of,  or  rather  set  on  fire,  in  their  reck- 
less, interminable  running  up  and  down ;  seemed  to  him 
worthy  of  a  sculptor,  and  also  of  a  hearer  capable  of 
repeating  the  mystery.  He  supposed  the  last  of  the 
Centaurs  interrogated  on  the  summit  of  a  mountain,  by 
the  side  of  his  cave,  and  relating  in  his  melancholy  old 
age  the  pleasures  of  his  youth  to  a  curious  mortal,  to 
this  diminutive  of  the  Centaur,  who  is  called  man  \  for 
man,  seen  in  this  fabulous,  grand  perspective,  would  be 
only  a  Centaur  degraded  and  set  on  his  feet.  There  is 
nothing  so  powerful  as  this  dream,  occupying  a  few 
pages ;  nothing  more  finished  and  more  classically 
executed. 

Guerin  projected  more  ;  this  was  only  a  beginning. 
He  had  also  done  a  Bacchante,  which  has  not  been 
found,  a   fragment  antedating  I  know  not  what  prose 


Memoir,  by  M.  Saint e  Beuve,  55 

poem  whose  subject  was  Bacchus  dans  VInde;  he  medi- 
tated a  Hermaphrodite.  La  Galerie  des  Antiques  thus 
furnished  him  moulds  into  which  he  was  henceforth  to 
pour,  and  give  stability,  under  severe  or  tender  forms,  to 
all  his  sensations  gathered  from  the  heaths  and  strands. 
A  first  phase  was  opening  for  his  talent.  But  the  artist, 
in  the  presence  of  his  ideal  temple,  made  only  the  statue 
for  the  threshold ;  he  was  to  fall  at  the  outset  of  his 
career.  Happy  in  a  recent  marriage  with  a  young  and 
beautiful  creole,  secure  henceforth  of  a  home  and  leisure, 
he  was  attacked  by  a  vital  disorder,  which  made  only  too 
clear  the  source  of  his  habitual  weakness.  One  under- 
stood then  the  persistent  lament  of  this  rich  nature  ; 
the  germs  of  destruction  and  premature  death  which 
were  sown  in  the  core  of  his  organism,  in  the  roots  of 
life,  were  frequently  transferred  to  his  moral  nature  by 
this  feeling  of  inexpressible  discouragement  and  exhaus- 
tion. This  lovely  young  man,  borne  dying  to  the  south, 
expired  in  the  summer  of  1839,  at  the  moment  when  he 
beheld  again  his  native  sky,  and  when  he  regained  in  it 
all  the  freshness  of  early  tenderness  and  religion.  The 
guardian  angels  of  home  watched  prayerfully  over  his  pil- 
low, and  consoled  his  last  look.  He  was  only  twenty- 
nine  years  old.  These  two  volumes,  which  are  issued 
to-day,  will  make  him  live  ;  and  by  a  just  compensation 
for  a  destiny  so  cruelly  cut  off,  that  which  was  scattered, 
which  was  written  and  noted  for  himself  alone,  which  he 
has  not  had  time  to  weave  and  trim  by  the  rules  of  art, 
becomes  his  most  beautiful  crown,  which,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  will  never  wither. 

SAINTE  BEUVE, 

De  VAcadhnie  Frangaise. 


y  O  UR  NA  L 


MAURICE    DE    GUERIN 


(JULY,    1832— OCTOBER,    1835.) 

Le  Cayla,  July  loth,  1832. 
EARLY  three  months  and  a  half  have  I  been 
in  the  country,  under  the  paternal  roof,  at 
home  (that  charming  English  phrase  com- 
pletely summing  up  our  chez  soi)^  in  the  cen- 
tre of  a  clear  horizon.  I  have  seen  the  spring — spring 
at  liberty,  free,  loosed  from  every  constraint — tossing 
flowers  and  verdure  at  its  will,  running  like  a  thoughtless 
child  along  our  valleys  and  hills,  putting  forth  sublime 
conceptions  and  gracious  fancies,  comparing  kinds,  har- 
monizing contrasts,  after  the  manner  or  rather  for  the 
instruction  of  great  artists.  I  have  seated  myself  in  the 
depths  of  the  woods,  on  the  margin  of  the  brooks,  on 
the  swell  of  the  hills  ;  I  have  set  foot  again  in  all  the 
places  where,  as  a  child,  I  had  rested  it,  rapidly  and 
with  all  the  carelessness  of  that  age.  To-day  I  have 
planted  it  firmly  in  those  places  ;  I  have  paused  and 
3* 


58  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

dwelt  upon  my  early  footprints  ;  I  have  begun  anew  my 
pilgrimage  in  contemplation  and  devotion — in  the  con- 
templation of  memories,  and  in  the  devotion  of  the  soul 
to  the  impressions  of  its  first  landscape. 

2,0th. — There  are  books  which  need  no  second  read- 
ing. I  have  selected  Ren^  for  reperusal  to-day — one  of 
the  most  disenchanted  days  of  my  life,  when  my  heart 
has  seemed  dead,  a  day  of  the  dryest  barrenness — to  test 
the  whole  power  of  this  book  upon  a  soul,  and  I  have  rec- 
ognized that  it  is  great.  This  reading  has  steeped  my  soul 
in  softness,  as  the  rain  of  the  storm.  I  take  an  infinite 
delight  in  coming  back  to  my  earliest  reading,  the  pas- 
sionate reading  of  sixteen  up  to  nineteen  years  of  age. 

l^-love  to  draw  tears  at  the  nearly  exhausted  springs  of 

\  my  youth. 
— ^  August  ^th. — To-day  I  have  completed  my  twenty- 
second  year.  I  have  often  seen,  in  Paris,  children  going 
to  the  grave  in  their  little  coffins,  and  thus  passing 
through  the  mighty  throng.  O  !  why  did  I  not  pass 
through  the  world  like  them,  buried  in  the  coffin  of  my 
innocence  and  in  the  oblivion  of  the  life  of  a  day  ? 
Those  little  angels  know  nothing  of  earth  ;  they  grow  in 
the  sky.  My  father  has  told  me  that,  in  my  infancy,  he 
has  often  seen  my  soul  upon  my  lips,  ready  to  take  wing. 
God  and  paternal  love  held  it  back  for  the  ordeal  of  life. 
Gratitude  and  love  to  both  !  But  I  cannot  repress  my 
longing  for  the  sky  where  I  should  be,  and  which  I  can 
reach  only  by  the  oblique  line  of  the  human  career. 

13M. — I  am  weak — very  weak.  How  many  times, 
even  since  grace  has  walked  with  me,  have  I  not  fallen, 
like  a  child  without  leading-strings  !  My  soul  is  frail  be- 
yond anything  that  can  be  imagined.  It  is  the  feeling  of 
my  weakness  which  makes  me  seek  a  shelter,  and  which 


Journal,  59 

gives  me  strength  to  break  with  the  world  in  order  to 
rest  more  surely  with  God.  Two  days  of  the  great  world 
of  Paris  will  put  an  end  to  all  my  resolutions.  They 
must  needs  be  hidden,  buried,  sheltered  in  retirement. 
Now  among  asylums  open  to  souls  in  need  of  escape, 
none  is  more  favorable  for  me  than  the  house  of  M.  de 
Lamennais,  full  of  science  and  piety. 

When  I  reflect  on  it,  I  blush  for  my  life,  which  I 
have  so  abused.  I  have  blasted  my  humanity.  Fortu- 
nately, I  had  two  parts  in  my  soul ;  I  have  plunged  only 
halfway  in  evil.  While  one-half  of  me  was  grovelling  in 
the  dust,  the  other,  inaccessible  to  all  blemish,  lofty  and 
serene,  was  gathering,  drop  by  drop,  that  poesy  which 
shall  gush  forth,  if  God  grants  me  the  time.  In  that  lies 
my  all.  I  owe  everything  to  poesy,  since  there  is  no 
other  word  to  express  the  entirety  of  my  thoughts.  I 
owe  to  it  all  which  is  still  pure,  elevated,  and  solid  in  my 
soul ;  I  owe  it  all  consolations  I  have  had  ;  I  shall  owe 
to  it,  perhaps,  my  future. 

I  feel  that  my  friendship  for  L is  strong  to-day, 

after  having  passed  through  the  extravagances  of  college 
life,  and  the  delirium  of  our  first  sallying  forth  into  the 
world.  It  waxes  grave  as  a  season  and  sweet  as  a  fruit 
which  attains  its  maturity. 

La  Chenaie,  February  6t/i,  1833. — I  have  just  fin- 
ished reading  the  first  volume  of  the  "  Memoirs  of 
Goethe."  This  book  has  left  upon  me  opposite  impres- 
sions. My  imagination  is  all  astir  with  Margaret,  with 
Lucinda,  with  Frederica — Klopstock,  Herder,  Wieland, 
Gellert,  Gleim,  Biirger,  that  burst  of  German  poetry, 
which  rises  so  fair,  so  national,  toward  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century ;  all  that  fermentation  of  thought  in 
the  German  brain  interests  profoundly,  especially  in  face 

tririVBEsiTy' 


6o  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

of  the  actual  epoch,  so  fruitful  and  so  glorious  for  Ger- 
many. But  a  bitter  thought  occurs  in  following  the  de- 
tails of  education,  and  the  march  of  the  intellectual  de- 
velopment of  the  young,  such  as  it  is  understood  in  this 
country ;  and  the  bitterness  springs  from  a  comparison 
with  French  education.  I  have  spent  ten  years  in  the 
colleges,  and  I  have  come  out,  bringing,  together  with 
some  scraps  of  Latin  and  Greek,  an  enormous  mass  of 
weariness.  That  is  about  the  result  of  all  college  educa- 
tion in  France.  They  put  into  the  hands  of  young  men 
the  ancient  authors  ;  that  is  well.  But  do  they  teach 
them  to  know,  to  appreciate  antiquity  ?  Have  they  ever 
developed  for  them  the  relations  of  those  magnificent 
literatures  with  the  Nature,  with  the  religious  dogmas,  the 
systems  of  philosophy,  the  fine  arts,  the  civilizations  ot 
the  ancient  nations  ?  Has  their  intelligence  ever  been 
led  by  those  beautiful  links  which  bind  all  parts  of  the 
civilization  of  a  people,  and  make  of  it  a  superb  whole, 
all  whose  details  touch,  reflect,  and  mutually  explain 
each  other  ?  What  professor,  reading  Homer  or  Virgil 
to  his  pupils,  has  developed  the  poetry  of  the  Iliad  or 
the  ^neid  by  the  poetry  of  Nature  under  the  sky  of 
Greece  or  Italy  ?  Who  has  dreamed  of  annotating  re- 
ciprocally the  poets  by  the  philosophers,  the  philoso- 
phers by  the  poets,  the  latter  by  the  artists,  Plato  by 
Homer,  Homer  by  Phidias  ?  They  isolate  these  great 
geniuses,  they  disjoint  a  literature,  and  they  fling  you  its 
scattered  limbs,  without  taking  the  trouble  to  tell  you 
what  place  they  occupy,  what  relations  they  mutually 
sustain  in  the  great  organization  whence  they  have  been 
detached.  Children  take  a  special  delight  in  cutting  out 
the  pictures  which  fall  into  their  hands  ;  they  separate 
with  great  skill  the  figures  one  from  the  other ;  their 


Journal,  6i 

scissors  follow  exactly  all  their  outlines,  and  the  group 
thus  divided  is  portioned  out  among  the  little  company, 
because  each  one  wants  an  image.  The  labor  of  our 
professors  bears  no  slight  resemblance  to  that  of  the  chil- 
dren ;  and  an  author,  thus  cut  off  from  his  surroundings, 
is  as  difficult  to  understand  as  the  figure  cut  out  by  the 
children  and  separated  from  the  grouping  and  the  back- 
ground of  the  picture.  After  that,  need  we  be  aston- 
ished that  the  studies  are  so  empty,  so  insufficient  ? 
What  can  remain  from  a  long  devotion  to  the  dead  let- 
ter, stripped,  as  it  were,  of  meaning,  except  disgust,  and 
an  almost  entire  hatred  of  study  ?  In  Germany,  on  the 
contrary,  a  broad  philosophy  presides  over  literary  stud- 
ies, and  sheds  over  the  earliest  labors  of  youth  that  grace 
which  so  sweetly  cherishes  and  develops  the  love  of 
science. 

Come,  courage  !  I  am  so  accustomed  to  farewells, 
separations  !  Ah !  nevertheless,  that  one  is  too  severe. 
No,  it  is  not  too  severe,  since  there  is  no  evil,  however 
great,  which  does  not  call  forth  in  the  soul  an  equal 
faculty  of  endurance.  I  shall  endure,  but  shall  keep  my 
word. 

March  2,d. — I  commenced  to  write  in  this  blank  book 
the  tenth  of  July,  1832,  and  I  have  come  back  to  it  only 
at  long  intervals.  These  eight  months  have  passed  in 
the  crudest  sufferings  of  soul.  I  have  written  little,  be- 
cause my  powers  have  been  nearly  crushed.  If  the  mal- 
ady had  left  my  intellect  a  little  liberty,  I  should  have 
gathered  some  very  curious  observations  upon  moral  suf- 
fering ',  but  I  was  bewildered  with  anguish.  I  think 
spring  will  do  me  great  good.  As  the  sun  ranges  higher 
and  vital  heat  pervades  nature,  the  sharpness  of  grief 
loses  its  energy ;  I  feel  its  bonds  relax,  and  my  soul. 


6i  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

long  compressed  and  almost  strangled,  expands  in  pro- 
portion and  opens  to  breathe. 

The  hours  of  to-day  have  enchanted  me.  The  sun, 
for  the  first  time  in  many  days,  has  shown  himself  in  all 
his  radiant  beauty.  He  has  unfolded  the  buds  of  the 
leaves  and  flowers,  and  awakened  in  my  bosom  a  thou- 
sand tender  thoughts.  The  clouds  resume  their  light 
and  graceful  shapes,  and  sketch  the  blue  with  charming 
fancies.  The  woods  have  not  yet  their  leaves,  but  they 
take  on  I  know  not  what  spirited  and  joyful  air,  which 
gives  them  an  entirely  new  face.  Everything  is  prepar- 
ing for  the  great  holiday  of  Nature. 

4th. — I  see  laborers  digging  in  the  garden.  These 
poor  people  thus  expend  their  whole  life  to  gain  where- 
with to  eat  their  bread  from  day  to  day — their  dry  and 
black  bread.  What  a  mystery  is  that  of  all  these  exist- 
ences, so  rude  and  lowly ! — and  they  are  almost  the 
whole  of  the  human  race.  A  day  will  come  when  all 
these  drudges  of  society  will  show  their  blackened  and 
callous  hands,  seamed  with  grasping  the  handles  of  their 
tools,  and  will  say,  "  Thou,  Lord,  who  hast  said,  Blessed 
are  the  poor  and  lowly,  behold  us  !  " 

"  To  you,  good  God,  we  make  our  last  appeal !  " 

6th. — filie  *  and  I  have  had  a  long  interview.  Always 
full  of  enthusiasm  for  travels,  we  have  made  an  excur- 
sion to  America ;  we  have  ascended  the  great  rivers, 
sailed  over  the  lakes,  wandered  through  the  forests  in 
company  with  Natty  Bumpo  and  Cooper's  other  heroes. 

Delightful  reminiscences !  Back  to  Europe.  Pro- 
digious fermentation  of  society.     The  infinity  of  thought 

*  3lllie  de  Kertanguy  died  1846. 


Journal,  (i^ 

which  pervades  human  intelligence,  all  intelligences,  be- 
ginning with  the  highest  angelic  powers  down  to  our- 
selves, and  perhaps  below  us — who  knows  ?  A  sea  of 
thought  heaving  before  God.  What  is  a  human  intelli- 
gence taken  apart  from  this  immensity  j  what  is  this  im- 
mensity itself  compared  with  the  thought  eternal,  God  ? 
Bewilderment !  He  is  a  man  who  has  pondered  all 
these  things,  who  has  sounded  the  depths  of  humility, 
and  whose  soul  is  so  strong  that  he  writes,  not  for  this 
world's  fame,  but  for  the  world's  good,  without  flinching 
or  failing.  Mysterious  struggles  of  a  genius,  a  mission- 
ary, a  martyr  !  God  has,  in  some  sort,  revealed  to  him 
the  profoundest  depths  of  society,  and  all  the  secrets  of 
the  evil  which  preys  upon  it  All  this  he  has  seen ; 
for  a  time  he  has  been  uncertain  how  to  lay  hold  of  this 
social  malady,  and  he  has  been  a  prey  to  great  sadness, 
to  a  sort  of  anguish.  At  last  he  found  what  he  sought, 
and  joy  returned  to  him.  He  accomplished  his  great 
mission.  O  !  whoever  should  know  the  rude  combats 
of  his  soul,  could  not  have  sufficient  admiration  for  such 
devotion,  for  the  inner  forces  of  that  man  are  incessantly 
struggling  with  thoughts  which  would  crush  powers  less 
strong  than  his  ;  but  he  has  received  the  apostleship, 
like  St.  Paul,  and  he  preaches  a  gospel.  "  Nam  si  evan- 
gelizavero,  non  est  mihi  gloria ;  necessitas  enim  mihi 
incumbit ;  vag  enim  mihi  est,  si  non  evangelizavero." 

Hence  we  arrived  at  the  necessity,  the  indispensable 
law  which  binds  each  one  to  fulfil  his  social  mission, 
however  narrow,  however  inconsiderable  it  may  be.  We 
owe  all  to  the  general  good  ;  not  only  the  sacrifice  of  our 
passions,  but  also  the  sacrifice  of  our  innocent  tastes,  of 
our  plans  of  individual  happiness,  if  this  happiness  con- 
sist in  being  idle  and  useless  to  our  kind.     We  did  cast 


64  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

a  glance  at  that  life,  so  sweet,  so  peaceable,  which  nestles 
in  the  bosom  of  the  family ;  but  that,  too,  was  a  glance 
of  sacrifice,  resolved  as  we  are  to  choose  our  place  where 
we  can  do  the  most  good. 

This  interview  has  restored  my  powers,  so  feeble,  so 
tottering.  My  heart  is  filled  with  an  unknown  sweet- 
ness, and  my  soul  has  taken  possession  of  herself,  like  a 
sick  man,  who,  having  drunk  a  healing  potion,  sinks  into 
his  bed,  expressing  satisfaction,  which  is,  in  truth,  naught 
but  the  expression  of  hope. 

Zth. — A  snowy  day.  A  southeast  wind  curls  the 
snow  in  eddies,  in  great  whirls  of  a  dazzling  whiteness. 
It  melts  as  it  falls.  Here  we  are  transported,  as  it  were, 
into  the  heart  of  winter,  after  a  few  spring  smiles.  The 
v/ind  is  cold  enough ;  the  little  singing-birds,  new- 
comers, shiver,  and  the  flowers,  too.  The  chinks  of  the 
partitions  and  the  sashes  wail  as  in  January ;  and  I,  in 
my  poor  wrapper,  shrink  into  myself,  like  Nature. 

^th. — More  snow,  hail,  blasts,  cold.  Poor  Brittany ! 
thou  sorely  needest  a  little  verdure  to  brighten  thy  som- 
bre face.  O  !  doff  quickly,  then,  thy  hooded  winter 
cloak,  and  let  me  see  thee  take  thy  light  garment  of 
spring,  tissue  of  leaves  and  of  flowers.  When  shall  I 
see  the  skirts  of  thy  robe  fluttering  at  the  will  of  the 
winds  ? — Read  Homer,  and  the  exploits  of  the  Norman 
heroes  in  Italy  and  Sicily.  Met  and  shook  hands  with 
Achilles,  Diomed,  Ulysses,  Robert  Guiscard,  Roger. 

1.0th. — 

^ovTO  vx)  KoX  yepas  olhv  oi<rvpo7cn  fiporoiffoi 
Keipacr^ai  re  K6fn]v^  ^aX4eiv  r  airh  Sdxpv  irapeiuy. 

Ocfyss.,  iv. 

iiZ/z. — It  has  snowed  all  night.  My  shutters,  poorly 
fastened,  allowed  me  glimpses,  as  soon  as  I  rose,  of  that 


JournaL  65 

great  sheet  of  white  which  has  been  silently  spread  over 
the  fields.  The  black  trunks  of  the  trees  rise  like  col- 
umns of  ebony  from  the  ivory-paved  court  of  a  temple  ; 
this  severe  and  sharp  contrast,  and  a  certain  dejected 
manner  in  the  woods,  make  one  very  sad.  Naught  is 
heard  ;  not  a  living  thing,  save  a  few  sparrows  who  take 
refuge,  peeping  as  they  go,  in  the  fir-trees  that  stretch 
their  long  arms  laden  with  snow.  The  interior  of  these 
bushy  trees  is  impervious  to  the  frosts  ;  it  is  a  shelter 
prepared  by  Providence.     The  little  birds  know  it  well. 

I  have  visited  our  primroses  ;  each  was  bearing  its 
little  burden  of  snow,  and  bending  its  head  under  the 
weight.  These  pretty  flowers,  so  richly  colored,  present- 
ed a  charming  effect  under  their  white  hoods,  I  saw 
whole  tufts  of  them  covered  over  with  a  single  block  of 
snow ;  all  these  laughing  flowers  thus  veiled,  and  lean- 
ing the  one  against  the  other,  seemed  like  a  group  of 
young  girls  overtaken  by  a  shower  and  getting  to  shelter 
under  a  white  apron. 

I  was  expecting  a  letter  this  evening ;  I  did  not  re- 
ceive it,  but  a  friend  arrived.  It  would  be  very  curious 
to  note  whether,  in  the  most  trifling  disappointments  of 
life.  Providence  does  not  contrive  for  us  compensations, 
which  our  ill-humor  and  injustice  prevent  our  appreci- 
ating. 

12th. — "  Gustans  gustavi  in  summitate  virgae,  quae 
erat  in  manu  mea,  paululum  mellis,  et  ecce  morior  " — 
Lib.  Reg.,  cap.  XIV. 

i^th. — We  live  the  interior  life  too  little  ;  we  scarcely 
live  it  at  all.  What  has  become  of  that  inward  eye 
which  God  has  given  us  to  keep  unceasing  watch  over 
our  soul,  to  be  the  witness  of  the  mysterious  workings  of 
thought,  the  ineffable  motion  of  life  in  the  tabernacle  of 


66  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

humanity  ?  It  is  closed,  it  slumbers  ;  and  we  open  wide 
our  earthly  eyes,  and  yet  understand  nothing  in  nature, 
not  availing  ourselves  of  that  sense  which  would  reveal  it 
to  us,  reflected  in  the  divine  mirror  of  the  spirit.  There 
is  no  contact  between  ourselves  and  Nature  ;  we  have 
knowledge  of  the  exterior  form  alone,  and  none  at  all 
of  the  meaning  of  the  hidden  language,  of  beauty  con- 
sidered as  eternal  and  partaking  of  God — things  which 
would  all  be  limpidly  outlined  and  mirrored  in  a  soul  en- 
dowed with  the  marvellous  introspective  faculty.  O  !  this 
contact  between  nature  and  the  soul  would  engender  an 
unspeakable  delight,  a  prodigious  love  of  Heaven  and 
God. 

To  descend  into  the  soul  of  man,  is  to  cause  Nature 
to  descend  into  his  soul. 

i6th. — I  find  in  ^^ L^ Europe  Litteraire"  some  remark- 
able ideas.  It  is  there  said  that  the  zones  of  thought 
grow  less  distinct  each  day;  that  the  mighty  intellects 
scattered  over  the  whole  globe  begin  to  comprehend  each 
other ;  that  everything  advances  towards  a  vast  republic 
of  human  thought.  And  again  :  that  the  ancients  have 
seized  wonderfully  well  upon  the  general  traits  of  the 
human  soul  and  of  Nature  ;  that  they  fashioned  from  them 
a  poetry,  external,  plastic,  visible  ;  but  that  the  epoch  of 
an  introspective,  profound,  analytical  poetry  has  arrived. 
These  thoughts  are  not  altogether  new,  and  have  been 
for  some  time  current  in  the  world  j  but  it  is  good  to  ac- 
tualize as  much  as  possible  the  great  movement  which  is 
at  work,  and  to  give  it  shape. 

igfh. — Took  a  walk  in  the  forest  of  Coetquen.  Hap- 
pened upon  a  place  remarkable  for  its  wildness ;  the 
road  descends  with  a  sudden  pitch  into  a  little  ravine 
where  flows  a  little  brook  over  a  slaty  bed,  which  gives 


Journal,  67 

its  waters  a  blackish  hue,  disagreeable  at  first,  but  which 
ceases  to  be  so  when  you  have  noted  its  harmony  with 
the  black  trunks  of  the  old  oaks,  the  sombre  verdure  of 
the  ivies,  and  its  contrast  with  the  white  and  glossy  limbs 
of  the  birches.  A  strong  north  wind  swept  through  the 
forest,  and  caused  it  to  utter  deep  roarings.  The  trees, 
under  the  buffets  of  the  wind,  struggled  like  madmen. 
Through  the  branches  we  saw  the  clouds  flying  rapidly 
in  black  and  grotesque  masses,  and  seeming  lightly  to 
graze  the  tops  of  the  trees.  This  great  gloomy,  floating 
veil  showed  rents  here  and  there,  through  which  glided  a 
ray  of  sunshine  which  fell  like  a  flash  of  lightning  into 
the  bosom  of  the  forest.  These  sudden  passages  of 
light  gave  to  the  majestic  depths  of  shade  a  haggard  and 
weird  aspect,  like  a  smile  on  the  lips  of  the  dead. 

20th. — The  winter  is  departing  with  a  smile  ;  it  bids 
adieu  with  a  brilliant  sun  shining  in  a  sky  pure  and 
smooth  as  a  Venice-glass.  Another  step  of  time  accom- 
plished. Oh  !  why  can  it  not,  like  the  coursers  of  the 
immortals,  with  four  bounds  reach  the  limits  of  its  last- 
ing ! 

Finished  reading  the  first  volume  of  "  The  History  of 
the  Italian  Republics."  It  is  a  grand  spectacle  to  see 
Liberty  emerging  from  the  wreck  and  rubbish  of  the  Ro- 
man Empire  and  taking  her  seat,  cross  in  hand,  on  the 
shores  of  the  seas,  at  Venice,  Genoa  and  Pisa.  At  first 
she  showed  herself  at  Amalfi,  at  Naples,  at  Gaeta ;  but 
the  kings  hunted  her  away.  Then  she  bade  a  long  fare- 
well to  Southern  Italy,  and  ever  skirting  the  sea,  settled 
in  the  North.  M.  Sismonde  Sismondi  has  failed  to  ap- 
preciate the  fine  drama  of  Italian  liberty ;  he  has  not 
grasped  the  character  of  the  highest  personage,  the  true 
hero  of  that  grand  scene,  the  Pope.     Actors  to  whom  be- 


68  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

long  the  leading  parts,  he  casts  almost  among  the  super- 
numeraries. He  represents  sovereign  pontiffs  like  vulgar 
self-seekers,  quarrelsome  barons,  the  tiara  on  their  heads 
and  the  cross  in  their  hands.  His  work  has  in  it  this  im- 
mense void,  which  makes  itself  felt  on  every  page.  To 
the  Countess  Matilda,  too,  he  gives  extremely  poor  pay- 
ment for  her  beautiful  devotion  to  the  cause  of  the  popes, 
and  consequently  the  cause  of  Italian  liberty. 

2isf. — A  source  of  pleasure  drained.  I  have  read 
the  last  page  of  "  Studies  of  Nature."  It  is  one  of  those 
books  we  wish  would  never  end.  There  is  little  to  be 
gained  from  it  for  science,  but  much  for  poetry,  for  the 
elevation  of  the  soul,  and  the  contemplation  of  Nature. 
This  book  sets  free  and  enlightens  a  faculty  which  we  all 
have,  however  veiled,,,  vague,  and  almost  totally  reft  of 
energy,T— the  faculty  which  gathers  the  beauty  of  Nature, 
and  hands  it  over  to  the  soul,  which  spiritualizes  it,  har- 
monizes it,  combines  it  with  ideal  beauty,  and  thus  en- 
larges its  sphere  of  love  and  adoration. 

My  God  !  why  do  we  complain  of  our  isolation  ?  I 
was  long  possessed  by  this  foolish  idea. 

At  that  time  I  was  living  on  a  wrong  principle  ;  I  had 
established  false  relations  between  the  physical  world 
and  my  soul,  and  I  suffered  much,  for  Nature  denied  me 
her  treasures  of  joy,  and  spurned  my  friendship,  on  ac- 
count of  these  false  relations.  I  was  disconsolate  in  the 
midst  of  a  profound  solitude,  the  world  seemed  to  me 
worse  than  a  desert  and  wholly  barren  island  in  the  bosom 
of  a  wild  ocean.  The  silence  was  frightful.  Folly !  pure  | 
folly  !  There  is  no  isolation  for  the  man  who  knows  how 
to  take  his  place  in  the  universal  harmony,  and  to  open 
his  soul  to  all  the  impressions  of  that  harmony.  Then 
one  comes  to  have  almost  a  physical  consciousness  that 


Journal,  69 


we  live  from  God  and  in  God  \  the  spirit  drinks,  to  reple- 
tion, of  this  universal  life  j  it  swims  in  it,  like  a  fish  in 
water. 

Let  us  abjure  the  worship  of  idols,  let  us  turn  our 
backs  on  all  the  deities  of  art,  decked  with  paint  and  false 
finery,  on  all  these  images,  with  mouths  that  speak  not. 
Let  us  adore  Nature,  frank,  ingenuous,  and  in  no  respect 
exclusive.  Great  God  !  how  can  men  make  poetry  in 
face  of  the  broad  poem  of  the  universe  ?  Your  poetry  ! 
the  Lord  has  made  it  for  you ;  it  is  the  created  world. 
Think  you,  you  hold  deeper  meanings  than  he  ? 

22d. — A  profitless  day ;  the  letter  which  I  received 
yesterday  evening  has  completely  paralyzed  me.  It  is 
not  very  severe,  and  full  of  good  advice.  But,  unfortu- 
nately, I  am  so  constituted  that  the  best  remedies  fail  of 
effect  upon  me  ;  nay,  what  is  much  more  strange,  often 
make  me  worse.  Thus  this  letter,  in  probing  my  most 
sensitive  wounds  in  order  to  heal  them,  has  thrilled  in  me 
the  chord  of  all  my  past  sufferings.  All  my  bitter  recol- 
lections have  sprung  into  waking  life  at  a  bound  j  in  a 
few  hours  I  have  resumed  the  miseries  of  ten  years,  taken 
them  up  not  in  thought  merely,  but  with  a  deep  and  ac- 
tual feeling  of  them.  As  long  as  those  sad  topics  shall 
remain  stamped  on  my  memory,  my  new  life  will  be  feeble 
and  languid.  A  trifle  suffices  to  plunge  me  anew  into 
these  memories,  and  brings  on  paroxysms  that  exhaust 
and  agonize  me. 

It  is  true  that  this  past  of  which  I  speak  is  yet  so 
near  that  it  throws  over  me  the  full  length  of  its  shadow. 
As  I  recede  from  it,  I  trust  its  present  power  will  grow 
weaker,  and  that  at  last  I  shall  find  myself  free  from  its 
impressions.  Nevertheless,  I  persist  in  beHeving  that 
disease  in  me  is  so  organic,  and  the  wreck  so  complete, 


70  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

that  I  shall  never  be  wholly  restored.  That  apprehensive; 
uneasy,  analyzing  trait  of  my  character  is  too  active  ever] 
to  leave  me  any  repose.  Mayhap  through  love  ,of  God 
shall  I  succeed  one  day  in  robbing  it  of  a  portion  of  its 
power.  If  I  alone  suffered,  it  were  well ;  but  those  that 
I  love,  and  who  are  good  enough  to  love  me,  suffer  also. 
I  cause  them  grief,  and  that  is  my  greatest  unhappiness. 

Intellectually  I  make  very  slow  advances.  I  appre- 
hend a  thousand  things,  but  this  is  a  vexation  rather  than 
a  progress.  I  read  slowly,  and  am  never  free  from  dis- 
quieting preoccupations.  Even  the  ravishing  contempla- 
tion of  Nature  cannot  lull  these  thoughts  that,  like  insects, 
buzz  incessantly  about  my  soul.  I  am  dragging  through 
the  study  of  the  languages,  of  which,  however,  I  am  fond. 
I  am  backward  in  everything,  and  yet  I  am  conscious  of 
something  which  sharply  spurs  me  on. 

2^th. — ^ came  to  me  all  excitement,  with  tears  in 

his  eyes.  "  What  is  the  matter  ? "  "  M.  Fell  has  frighten- 
ed me."  "  How  ? "  "  He  was  sitting  behind  the  chapel, 
under  the  two  Scotch  firs ;  he  took  his  stick,  and  drew 
upon  the  sward  a  tomb,  and  said  to  me  :  *  'Tis  there  I 
wish  to  lie  ;  but  let  there  be  no  monumental  stone — a 
simple  mound  of  turf.  O  !  how  happy  I  shall  be  there  ! ' 
I  thought  that  he  felt  ill,  that  he  foresaw  his  end  approach- 
ing. Besides,  it  is  not  the  first  time  that  he  has  been 
disturbed  by  presentiments.  He  told  us,  when  he  set  out 
for  Rome  :  *  I  do  not  expect  to  see  you  again ;  accom- 
plish the  good  that  I  have  been  unable  to  do.'  He  longs 
to  die.  This  world  is  such  a  dismal  place  for  a  thorough- 
ly Christian  soul,  and  above  all  for  a  Christian  soul  like 
his." 

26th. — A  young  man  from  Dauphind,  Henry  Guiller- 
mard  by  name,  sends  me  some  verses  with  reference  to 


Journal.  7 1 

certain  stanzas  on  Poland,  inserted  m.  V Avenir  eighteen 
months  ago.  Rather  an  amusing  incident  to  see  his  self- 
love  start  up  after  so  long  a  time,  and  for  such  a  trifle  ! 

2  "jth. — I  jog  along  pretty  well  in  my  new  path.  Right 
weary  do  I  become  at  times  ;  but  God  soon  restores  my 
courage,  doubtless  because  I  have  placed  more  reliance 
on  His  infinite  goodness.  My  work  grows  more  certain 
and  more  tranquil ;  ideas  come  into  my  head  without 
confusion  or  tumult,  calmly  and  in  fair  array. 

I  take  great  delight  in  combining  and  blending  the 
study  of  ancient  and  modern  Art.  These  two  studies, 
joined  hand  in  hand,  lend  each  other  marvellous  charms ; 
and  this  reminds  me  of  a  picture  where  Homer  is  seen 
yielding  his  hand  to  the  guidance  of  a  lovely  child. 

28//Z. — As  often  as  we  allow  ourselves  to  penetrate  to 
Nature,  our  soul  opens  to  the  most  touching  impressions. 
There  is  something  in  Nature,  whether  she  decks  herself 
in  smiles  during  the  bright  days,  or  becomes,  as  in 
autumn  and  winter,  pale,  gray,  cold  and  tearful,  which 
stirs  not  only  the  surface  of  the  spirit,  but  even  its  most 
secret  recesses,  and  awakens  a  thousand  memories  which 
have,  apparently,  no  connection  with  the  external  aspects, 
but  which,  without  doubt,  sustain  a  relation  with  the  soul 
of  Nature  by  sympathies  to  us  unknown.  This  marvel- 
lous power  I  have  experienced  to-day,  stretched  in  a 
grove  of  beeches,  and  breathing  the  warm  air  of  spring. 

29//Z. — Yesterday  we  extended  our  walk  farther  than 
usual ;  M.  Gerbet,  Mermet  and  I  reconnoitered  toward 
the  north,  as  far  as  the  heights  of  St.  Helen.  This  is  a 
sort  of  belvidere,  v/hence  the  view  extends  over  a  vast 
horizon,  southward  and  eastward,  sombre  and  monot- 
onous. Northward  rise  the  shores  of  the  ocean,  describ- 
ing a  long  line  of  blue.     A  little  to  the  northeast — thanks 


72  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

to  a  break  in  the  hills — we  had  a  glimpse  of  the  bay  of 
Cancale.  Its  waters,  struck  by  the  sunlight,  glistened 
brightly  in  a  luminous  strip,  enabling  us  to  distinguish 
them  from  the  bluish  coast  of  Normandy.  Yonder,  west- 
ward, we  could  see  Dinant  with  its  lofty  spires,  half  veil- 
ed in  the  haze  that  hangs  over  cities ;  in  the  distance, 
plains.  In  the  same  direction  stood  out  against  a  dark 
background  the  white  country  houses,  always  in  company 
with  a  clump  of  firs,  which  seemed  like  a  huge  black 
giant  standing  guard  for  the  protection  of  the  hearthstone. 
The  pointed  belfries,  rising  at  intervals  like  the  tow- 
ers on  an  immense  rampart,  shot  up  around  the  entire 
horizon.  I  am  delighted  with  this  excursion  for  having 
opened  to  me  this  grand  panorama,  but  above  all  for 
having  given  me  a  glimpse  of  the  ocean. 

"  O  !  c'est  im  beart  spectacle  h  ravir  la  pensee,^'' 

^^^^^  this  vast  circulation  of  life  carried  on  in  the  ample  bosom 
of  Nature  ;  life  which  springs  from  an  invisible  fountain, 

•^j^  and  swells  the  veins  of  this  universe.    Obeying  its  law  of 

ascension,  it  mounts,  ever  purifying  and  ennobling  itself, 
from  kingdom  to  kingdom,  to  pulsate  at  last  in  the  heart 

"^Y^  of  man,  the  centre,  where  from  every  quarter  its  thousand 

currents  meet.  There  it  is  brought  under  the  touch  of 
Divinity ;  there,  as  upon  the  altar  burning  with  incense, 

V  it  exhales  itself,  with  sacrificial  mystery,  in  the  bosom 

Nv  of  God.     Methinks  there  should  be  profound  and  mar- 

vellous things  to  be  said  upon  the  sacrifice  of  Nature 
in  the  heart  of  man,  and  the  eucharistic  offering  made  in 
that  same  heart.  The  simultaneousness  of  these  two 
sacrifices,  and  the  absorption  of  the  one  in  the  other  on 
the  same  altar,  that  rendezvous  in  humanity,  of  God,  and 


Journal.  73 

all  created  things,  should  open  to  view,  it  seems  to  me, 
grand  heights  and  depths,  sublimitas  et profundum. 

3  \st, — The  love  which  speaks,  sings,  wails  in  one  part 
of  creation,  reveals  itself  in  the  other  half  under  the  form 
of  flowers.  All  this  efflorescence,  so  rich  in  form,  in 
color,  and  in  perfume,  with  which  the  fields  are  resplen- 
dent, is  the  expression  of  love ;  it  is  love  itself  which 
celebrates  its  sweet  mysteries  in  the  bosom  of  each  flower. 
The  blooming  bough,  the  bird  which  alights  thereon  to 
sing  or  to  build  its  nest,  the  man  who  regards  both 
branch  and  bird,  are  all  animated  by  the  same  principle 
in  different  degrees  of  perfection.  I  read  in  Herder  that 
the  flowers  perish  immediately  after  fructification ;  that 
the  birds  lose  their  song,  their  blitheness,  and  some  of 
them  the  brilliant  colors  of  their  plumage  after  the  sea- 
son of  nests,  and  that  man,  after  the  period  of  passions, 
declines  rapidly  towards  old  age.  There  is  food  for 
meditation  in  this  law  of  decay  so  intimately  connected 
with  the  law  of  love  and  reproduction. 

April  2d. — The  clouds  have  dropped  rain  all  day 
long.  Sometimes  it  fell  in  violent  showers,  sometimes 
in  fine  mist,  lightly  rustling.  The  blackbirds,  the  hedge- 
sparrows,  all  the  singing-birds  whistle,  chirp,  and  warble, 
notwithstanding.  The  clouds  leave,  at  times,  large  clear 
spaces  in  the  sky  through  which  the  sun  pours  floods  of 
light.  Then  the  bordering  clouds  catch  the  illumina- 
tion j  rank  on  rank  they  fly  afar,  but  with  tints  fading 
and  more  indistinct  as  they  recede,  until  the  rays  die 
away  and  are  absorbed  in  an  enormous  mass  which  hangs 
motionless  on  the  confines  of  the  south-eastern  horizon, 
brightly  tipping  its  salient  points,  and  leaving  in  shadow 
its  irregular  depressions. 

a^th. — A  very  rainy  morning.     Spring  takes  an   ugly 
4 


74  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

turn.  Toward  one  o'clock,  the  heavens  uncurtained, 
and  we  had  a  few  moments  of  clear  sky  and  penetrating 
heat.  Now  the  clouds  begin  again  to  encroach.  I  have 
seen  their  grizzly  heads  rising  on  the  horizon  j  in  less  than 
no  time  we  shall  have  lost  the  blue.  They  are  fleeing  to- 
ward the  east.  I  rather  like  this  scudding  of  the  clouds  ; 
some  seem  to  be  eyeing  each  other  and  exchanging  a 
challenge  to  a  race. 

$th. — A  beautiful  day  as  one  could  wish.  Some 
clouds,  but  only  as  many  as  are  needed  to  give  pictur- 
esqueness  to  the  sky.  They  assume  more  and  more  their 
summer  forms.  Their  scattered  groups  repose  motionless 
under  the  sun,  like  flocks  of  sheep  in  the  pastures,  during 
the  heat  of  the  day.  I  have  seen  a  swallow,  and  I  have 
heard  the  bees  humming  over  the  flowers.  Seating  my- 
self in  the  sun,  in  order  that  I  may  be  saturated  to  the 
marrow  with  divine  Spring,  I  have  experienced  some 
of  the  impressions  of  my  childhood  ;  for  a  moment,  I 
have  regarded  the  sky  with  its  clouds,  the  earth  with  its 
forests,  its  songs,  its  murmurings,  as  I  did  then.  This 
renewing  of  the  first  aspect  of  things,  of  the  expression 
which  our  first  thoughts  put  upon  them  is,  to  my  thinking, 
one  of  the  sweetest  influences  of  childhood  on  the  current 
of  life. 

My  God !  what  is  my  soul  about  to  be  thus  taken  up 
with  such  evanescent  pleasures,  on  Good  Friday,  that  day 
full  of  the  thought  of  Thy  death  and  of  our  redemption  ! 
There  is  in  me  I  know  not  what  reprehensible  spirit 
which  excites  great  discontent,  and  drives  me  as  it  were 
to  rebel  against  all  holy  offices  and  the  collectedness  of 
soul  which  are  the  due  preparation  for  the  great  solem- 
nities of  our  faith.  We  have  been  in  special  seclusion 
for  two  days,  and  I   have  done  nothing  but  grow  weary, 


Journal, 

fretted  with  I  know  not  what  thoughts,  and  even  becom- 
ing irritated  with  the  customs  of  the  retreat.  Oh  !  how 
well  I  recognize  here  the  old  leaven  of  which  I  have  not 
yet  purged  my  soul ! 

\oth. — We  have  left  the  great  festival  three  days  be- 
hind. One  less  anniversary  of  the  death  and  resurrec- 
tion of  our  Saviour !  Every  year  is  marked  with  its 
solemn  festivals.  When  will  come  at  last  the  festival 
eternal  ?  I  have  witnessed  something  very  touching  j 
Frangois  brought  us  one  of  his  friends  whom  he  had  con- 
verted. This  neophyte  has  entered  upon  the  exercises 
of  the  retreat,  and  Easter-day  he  communed  with  us. 
Francois  was  in  the  seventh  heaven.  He  took  great 
credit  to  himself  for  that.  FranQois  is  quite  young ;  he 
is  hardly  twenty.  M.  de  La  M is  thirty,  and  is  mar- 
ried.    There  is  something  very  touching  and  unaffected 

on  the  part  of  M.  de  La  M in  thus  allowing  himself 

to  be  led  to  God  by  a  very  young  man ;  and  this 
youthful  friendship  which  makes  an  apostle  of  Frangois 
is  no  less  beautiful  and  touching.  They  are  country 
neighbors,  often  labor  together  and  write  charming  verses 
to  each  other  upon  the  events  of  their  domestic  or  friend- 
ly intercourse. 

I  have  read  Lucrezia  Borgia  with  the  liveliest  delight. 
Everything  that  comes  from  Hugo,  it  is  needless  to  say,  is 
remarkable,  and  bears  his  strong  impress.  There  is  in 
the  quality  of  his  genius  something  so  surprising,  so  daz- 
zling, so  bewildering,  that  after  reading  his  work,  be  it 
drama,  ode,  or  romance,  one  is  left  all  amazed,  the  soul 
profoundly  stirred,  and  the  mind,  to  say  the  least,  intense- 
ly excited.  All  his  compositions  set  some  of  the  inner- 
most fibres  of  our  humanity  vibrating,  or  penetrate  into 
some  depth.     His  Lucrezia  Borgia  shows  great  progress. 


76  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

Hugo  is  right  when  he  says,  in  the  preface,  that  this 
drama  will  be  the  principal  epoch  in  his  literary  career. 
Indeed,  it  seems  to  me  that  his  genius  is,  as  it  were,  in- 
carnated in  this  work.  I  find  there  in  the  highest  degree 
of  exaltation  the  two  kinds  of  genius  which  rule  in  his 
soul  :  one  ardent,  bounding,  excessive  in  its  imi^etuosity, 
delighting  in  strange,  frightful  things,  running  after  peri- 
lous and  fanciful  adventures  in  which  blood  will  be  shed, 
and  encounters  to  make  the  hair  stand  on  end  ;  fatalist, 
because  his  vagaries  carry  him  too  high  among  the  ideals 
of  humanity  without  bringing  him  near  enough  to  God ; 
the  other,  calm,  pleasant,  full  of  tenderness,  though  not 
sentimental ;  seizing  upon  that  in  man  which  is  purest, 
most  exalted,  most  fruitful  in  virtue  and  gentleness.  The 
Odes  et  Ballades^  Notre  Da?ne  de  Paris,  Hernani,  Han 
d'Islande,  Les  Feuilles  d^Automne,  are  all  stamped  with 
this  two-fold  impress.  These  contrasts  of  his  soul  tend 
more  and  more  to  declare  themselves,  to  place  them- 
selves more  and  more  in  opposition.  He  has  made  a 
statement  of  them  in  the  notice  of  his  new  drama,  and  in 
the  drama  itself,  has  embodied  them  in  a  sublime  creation. 
This  dualism  of  his  will  work  out  some  magnificent 
things  ;  but  he  will  do  great  injury  if  he  wishes  to  make 
others  adopt  it  as  well  as  himself. 

i$th. — At  last  I  have  seen  the  ocean.     C ^  and  I 

set  out  on  Thursday,  at  one  o'clock,  with  fine  weather 
and  a  fresh  breeze.  We  had  seven  leagues  to  go  ;  but  we 
were  so  enchanted  to  find  ourselves  marching  towards  the 
sea,  that  we  took  little  thought  of  the  length  of  the  way. 
C uttered  a  cry  of  joy  ;  this  pedestrian  trip  remind- 
ed him  of  his  journey  to  the  South  of  Spain  and  Switzer- 

*  M.  Edmond  de  Cazales,  son  of  the  celebrated  orator  of  I'Assem- 
blee  Constitucntc. 


Journal,  77 

land,  which  he  made  on  foot.  He  has  a  great  fancy  for 
this  way  of  travelling.  "  In  this  humble  equipage,"  said 
he  to  me,  "  the  traveller  mingles  with  the  people,  he  goes 
into  the  inns  to  refresh  himself  or  to  rest,  he  sleeps  in 
cottages,  he  accosts  travellers  like  himself;  these  chance 
meetings  on  the  dusty  highway,  these  men  who  go  each 
whither  God  leads  him,  sometimes  bring  about  touching 
confidences."  Then  he  talked  with  enthusiasm  of  the 
beautiful  lakes  and  the  grand  mountains.  At  Cha- 
teauneuf,  a  charming  little  village,  a  fine  view  unfolded  to 
us:  on  one  side,  to  the  north-west,  were  tiers  of  hills 
heavily  wooded,  each  crowned  with  its  white  house,  and, 
when  the  hills  failed,  La  Ranee  flowed  broadly  on,  daz- 
zling as  a  mirror  in  the  sunlight  j  on  the  other  side,  to 
the  east,  a  well-cultivated  plain  extended  in  full  view  till 
it  lost  itself  in  the  horizon.  Patches  of  early  verdure 
gleamed  here  and  there,  and  by  the  fresh  and  ruddy  color 
of  the  woods,  one  could  see  that  the  face  of  Nature  was 
flushing  with  life  and  heat,  and  that  she  was  ready  to 
burst  into  bloom.  This  grand  spectacle,  embellished  by 
all  the  enchantment  of  the  sunlight,  turned  our  conversa- 
tion upon  the  study  and  worship  of  Nature.  I  was  de- 
lighted to  hear  C express  exactly  what  I  have  felt  in 

the  bottom  of  my  soul  on  this  subject.     He  added :  "  This 
great  mystery  of  the  goodness  of  God  which  is  manifest^^ 
ed  to   all,  good  and  evil    alike,  by  this  display  of  the  | 
beauty  and  richness  of  Nature,  is,  to  my  thinking,  an  idea  I 
full  of  hope  for  the  destiny  of  men  in  the  other  life."  I 
The  thought  of  death  which  rose  before  us  in  the  light  of  \ 
these  reflections  seemed  so  sweet  and  consoling  that  we 
fairly  longed  to  die.     We  had  stripped  the  face  of  Death 
of  that  hideous  mask  with  which  the  terror  of  evil  con- 
sciences has  invested  it,  and  he  smiled  upon  us.     Would  it 


7  8  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

not  be  the  same  with  all,  if  they  were  stirred  by  a  particle  of 
love  for  heavenly  things,  or  even  by  a  little  curiosity  ? 
Again  he  said  to  me  :  "I  have  been  loaded  with  the 
greatest  blessings ;  I  have  abused  them  shamefully,  and  yet 
I  have  such  trust  in  God  that  I  feel  sure  of  my  salvation." 
Our  conversation  travelled  far  on  this  line  of  thought. 
Then  we  fell  to  relating  our  inner  life,  our  conflicts,  our 
way  of  meeting  life,  etc.     Little  by  little  the  conversation 

wandered  to  the  poets,  and  love.     C knows  a  great 

deal  about  Lamartine ;  he  has  the  happiness  to  be  his 
friend.  He  is  skilled  in  the  lore  of  love,  he  has  loved 
long  and  much,  and  he  loves  still,  but  his  enchantment 
begins  to  fade.  Lamartine,  Hugo,  Nodier,  and  the  rest 
brought  us  to  the  gates  of  Saint-Malo,  and  lulled  the 
cruel  pain  in  my  feet  cramped  and  tortured  in  tight  boots. 
A  little  after  sunset  wc  found  ourselves  in  sight  of  the 
town.  It  appeared  to  us  suddenly  at  the  turn  of  a  street 
in  Saint-Servan.  AVhat  struck  me,  at  first,  was  a  row  of 
vessels  whose  enormous  hulls  presented  a  black  front 
and  shapes  hardly  discernible  in  the  shadow,  but  whose 
masts  and  rigging,  rising  into  the  sky,  seemed,  as  it  were, 
to  embroider  the  evening  light.  Behind  these  ships  we 
perceived  a  black  mass  surrounded  with  ramparts.  It 
was  Saint-Malo,  a  veritable  nest  for  sea-birds ;  and  further 
on,  where  we  could  distinguish  nothing,  arose  a  deep, 
monotonous  voice ;  it  was  the  ocean.  We  came  into  the 
town  along  the  shore,  thanks  to  the  low  tide  ;  we  took  lodg- 
ings at  L^ Hotel  de  France^  from  which  one  has  a  view  of 
the  sea,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  fell  asleep 
with  the  ocean  two  hundred  yards  from  my  bed,  and  un- 
der the  spell  of  its  marvellous  grandeur.  The  next  day, 
straight  to  the  sea.  The  tide  was  beginning  to  rise  :  we 
had  time,  however,  to  make  the  tour  on  foot  of  the  rock 


Journal,  79 

of  Saint-Malo.  What  I  experienced,  as  I  cast  my  eyes 
over  this  infinite  expanse,  it  would  be  difficult  to  ex- 
press. The  soul  is  not  equal  to  this  spectacle  ;  it  shrinks 
before  this  vast  phenomenon  and  knows  no  longer 
whither  it  goes.  I  remember,  however,  that  I  thought 
first  of  God,  then  of  the  deluge,  of  Columbus,  of  conti- 
nents beyond  the  abyss,  of  shipwrecks,  of  sea-fights,  of 
Byron,  of  Rene,  who  embarked  at  Saint-Malo,  and  who, 
borne  away  on  the  same  waves  that  I  was  contemplating, 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  grated  window  where  gleamed  the 
lamp  of  the  nun.  For  the  rest,  this  first  visit  has  been 
so  short,  and  the  impression  it  has  left  so  startling  and 
unmeasured,  that  no  assured  and  settled  conclusions 
have  stayed  in  my  soul.  After  three  hours,  which  van- 
ished like  a  moment,  we  started  on  a  little  craft  which 
goes  up  the  Ranee  as  far  as  Dinan,  and  finished  our 
journey  on  foot,  with  somewhat  jaded  bodies,  but  with 
happy  hearts. 

22d. — I  have  stumbled  sadly,  and  my  life  has  great  trou- 
ble in  recovering  from  the  fall.  All  work  is  impossible  with 
this  sort  of  agitation.  Everything  is  embittered  with  such 
a  taste  of  gall  in  the  mouth.  Am  I  to  blame  ?  Some- 
what so,  perhaps.  I  ought  not  to  feel  these  things  so 
keenly ;  but  it  must  also  be  confessed  that,  without 
annihilating  one's  soul,  without  having  compressed,  cramp- 
ed, wrung  it  in  a  way  to  leave  in  it  no  drop  of  the  love  of 
independence,  it  is  difficult  to  stifle  this  cry  of  liberty,  or  of 
pride,  call  it  by  what  name  you  will.  This  little  adventure 
augurs  very  ill  for  my  new  life  ;  if  so  trifling  an  experience 
has  put  to  flight  my  patience  and  all  my  good  resolutions, 
I  have  not  much  to  hope  from  my  resignation  in  the 
future.  Disenchantment  has  again  taken  hold  of  me  ;  all 
that  smiled  upon  me  yesterday  makes  faces  at  me  to-day  ; 


8o  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

all  that  was  white  is  black,  all  that  was  clear  is  troubled  ; 
my  soul 

"  N''est pltcs  qu'une  onde  obscure  ou  le  sable  a  montiy 

It  is  a  misfortune  to  be  thus  constituted.  My  happi- 
ness must  be  pure  and  rounded  at  every  point ;  the  least 
blemish  disfigures  it  in  my  eyes,  a  black  cloud  in  the 
sky  spoils  the  whole  heavens  for  me.  It  is  folly,  and 
the  most  unwise  of  all  follies,  for  there  is  no  such 
happiness  in  this  world  j  but  it  seems  to  be  my  lot  to 
be  as  poorly  favored  with  illusions  as  with  realities. 
Fiat !  fiat ! 

23^. — The  awakening  of  vegetation  is  prodigiously 
slow.  I  am  almost  out  of  humor  with  Nature,  who  seems 
to  take  pleasure  in  exhausting  our  patience.  The  larches, 
the  birches,  two  lilac-trees  that  we  have  in  the  garden, 
the  rose-bushes  and  the  hedges  of  hawthorn,  show  the 
least  bit  of  green  ;  everything  else  is  gloomy,  and  sleeps 
almost  as  in  winter,  save  a  few  beeches  which,  more 
spring-like  than  their  brothers,  begin  to  flush  with  color 
against  the  dark  mass  of  the  grove  by  the  pond.  At  any 
rate,  the  birds  are  all  come ;  the  nightingales  sing  day 
and  night,  the  sun  shines  merrily,  the  winged  insects  hum 
and  gambol  in  the  air  ;  everywhere  is  life  and  joy,  except 
with  me.  I  know  not  by  what  capricious  contrast  life 
has  been  more  burdensome  in  these  last  few  days  than  in 
the  winter,  when  I  was  not  a  little  troubled.  I  seem  to 
myself  like  a  dead  tree  in  the  midst  of  the  green,  green 
woods. 

24//^. — Finished  reading  the  Fhysiologie  vegetale,  by 
Candolle,  three  volumes  octavo.  The  first  treats  of  the  nur- 
ture, the  second  of  the  reproduction  of  plants,  the  third 
of  the   influence  of  external   agents.     In   spite  of  the 


Journal,  8 1 

chemistry  which  is  a  principal  feature  in  this  work,  es- 
pecially in  the  first  volume,  and  of  which  I  do  not  under- 
stand a  word,  I  have  found  a  lively  pleasure  in  reading 
it.  Even  before  I  had  taken  a  half  step  in  it,  an  entirely 
new  world,  a  little  vague  to  be  sure,  opened  before  me ; 
but,  however  that  maybe,  it  is  no  small  happiness  to  open  up 
a  new  perspective  in  the  contemplation  of  this  world,  and 
to  get  glimpses  of  the  life  and  beauty  of  Nature.  An  in- 
finite number  of  details  have  escaped  me,  but  the  im- 
pression which  remains  is  precious.  It  has  increased  for 
me  the  charm  in  observing  natural  objects,  and  has  turn- 
ed my  feet  towards  an  inexhaustible  source  of  consola- 
tions and  of  poetry.  Oh  !  what  must  be  the  happiness 
of  Heaven,  since  the  slightest  view  of  the  order 
and  vital  energy  of  our  diminutive  globe  delights  us  so 
profoundly  !  From  another  point  of  view,  pain  and  vexa- 
tion of  soul  are  increased.  We  are  always  running  our 
heads  against  phenomena  we  do  not  comprehend — vulgar 
phenomena,  so  common  as  to  make  the  shock  so  much 
the  more  cruel.  But  we  must  take  patience  in  view  of 
the  future,  and  accustom  our  souls  to  be  satisfied  with 
litde. 

2^th, — It  has  just  been  raining.  Nature  is  fresh, 
radiant ;  the  earth  seems  to  taste  with  delight  the  water 
which  brings  it  life.  One  would  say  that  the  birds'  throats 
are  also  refreshed  by  this  rain ;  their  song  is  purer,  more 
gushing,  more  piercing,  and  vibrates  wonderfully  in  the 
air  now  become  exquisitely  sonorous  and  echoing.  The 
nightingale,  the  bullfinches,  the  blackbirds,  the  thrushes, 
the  orioles,  the  finches,  the  wrens,  all  sing  and  rejoice. 
A  goose,  screaming  like  a  trumpet,  adds  to  the  charm 
by  contrast.  The  motionless  trees  seem  to  listen  to  all 
these  sounds.  Innumerable  apple-trees  in  flower  look 
4^ 


82  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

from  a  distance  like  balls  of  snow  ;  the  cherry-trees,  also 
in  white,  rise  in  pyramids  or  unfold  in  fans  of  flowers. 

The  birds  seem  at  times  to  aim  at  those  orchestral 
effects  in  which  all  the  instruments  mingle  in  a  maze  of 
harmony. 

If  it  were  possible  to  identify  ourselves  with  spring, 
to  carry  this  thought  to  the  point  of  believing  that  all  the 
life,  all  the  love  which  leavens  Nature  culminates  in  our- 
selves ;  to  feel  ourselves  at  once  flower,  verdure,  bird, 
song,  freshness,  elasticity,  delight,  serenity,  what  would 
become  of  me  ?  There  are  moments  when,  by  dint  of  con- 
centrating one's  thoughts  on  this  idea,  and  of  gazing  in- 
tently on  Nature,  one  seems  to  experience  some  such 
thing. 

May  ist. — Heavens  !  how  gloomy  !  wind,  rain,  and 
cold.  This  first  of  May  gives  me  the  idea  of  a  wedding- 
day  turned  into  a  day  for  a  funeral.  Yesterday  evening 
was  all  moonlight  and  stars — a  blue  sky,  whose  limpid 
clearness  might  send  you  to  the  seventh  heaven  of  rap- 
ture. To-day  I  have  seen  nothing  but  showers  streaming 
through  the  air  in  disordered  ranks,  driven  furiously  be- 
fore a  mad  wind.  I  have  heard  nothing  but  this  same 
wind  wailing  on  every  side  of  me  with  those  pitiful  and 
sinister  wails  which  it  catches  or  learns  I  know  not 
where  ;  one  would  say  it  seems  the  very  blast  of  mis- 
fortune, of  calamity,  of  all  the  afllictions  which  I  imagine 
to  be  hovering  in  our  atmosphere,  shaking  our  dwellings 
and  chanting  its  mournful  prophecies  about  our  windows. 
This  wind,  whatever  it  may  be,  at  the  same  time  that  it 
was  affecting  my  soul  so  sadly  by  its  mysterious  spirit, 
was  agitating  external  Nature  by  its  material  power,  and 
perhaps  also  by  something  more  j  for  who  knows  if  we 
are  acquainted  with  the  whole  range  of  the  mutual  rela- 


V 


Journal,  83 

tions  and  intercourse  of  the  elements  ?  I  saw  this  wind 
from  my  window  doing  his  utmost  against  the  trees, 
driving  them  to  despair.  He  threw  himself,  at  times, 
upon  the  forest  with  such  impetuosity,  that  it  was  thrown 
into  billows  like  a  sea,  and  I  expected  to  see  the  whole 
forest,  pivoted  on  its  roots,  turn  and  spin  like  an  immense 
whirlwind.  The  four  great  firs  behind  the  house  re- 
ceived from  time  to  time  such  rude  shocks  that  they 
seemed  to  take  fright,  and  uttered,  as  it  were,  shouts  of 
terror  to  make  one  tremble.  The  birds  who  ventured  to 
fly  were  swept  along  like  straws  \  I  saw  them — hardly 
breasting  with  a  feeble  struggle  against  the  current,  and 
only  able  at  most  to  keep  their  wings  stretched  out — at 
last  drifting  rapidly  down  the  wind.  Those  which  stay 
in  their  hiding-places  give  feeble  signs  of  life  by  begin- 
ning their  song  and  suddenly  stopping.  The  flowers  look 
draggled  and  tattered ;  everything  seems  bowed  with 
sorrow.  I  am  more  sad  than  in  winter.  In  these  days, 
there  is  revealed  in  the  depth  of  my  soul,  in  the  inner- 
most, the  profoundest  recesses  of  its  being,  a  sort  of  despair 
altogether  strange  ;  it  is  like  the  abandonment  of  an  out- 
er darkness,  where  God  is  not.  My  God,  how  comes  it 
that  my  repose  is  affected  by  what  passes  in  the  air,  and 
that  the  peace  of  my  soul  is  thus  given  up  to  the  caprice 
of  the  winds  ?  O !  the  truth  is  that  I  know  not  how  to 
control  myself ;  that  my  will  is  not  one  with  Thine,  and 
as  there  is  no  other  thing  it  can  lay  hold  of,  I  have  be- 
come the  sport  of  every  breath  that  blows. 

3</. — A  joyful  day,  full  of  sunshine  ;  a  balmy  breeze, 
perfumes  in  the  air ;  in  the  soul,  bliss.  The  verdure 
grows  visibly ;  it  has  darted  from  the  garden  into  the 
copses  ;  it  has  got  the  upper  hand  all  along  the  pond  j 
it  leaps,  so  to  speak,  from  tree  to  tree,  from  thicket  to 

\. 


84         •  Maurici  de  Guerin. 

thicket,  in  the  fields  and  on  the  hill-sides,  and  I  see  where 
it  has  already  reached  the  forest,  and  begins  to  overflow 
upon  its  huge  back.  Soon  it  will  have  spread  as  far  as 
the  eye  can  reach,  and  all  these  wide  spaces  enclosed  by 
the  horizon  will  be  waving  and  murmuring  like  a  vast  sea, 
a  sea  of  emerald.  A  few  days  more,  and  we  shall  have  all 
the  pomp,  all  the  display  of  the  vegetable  kingdom. 

"jth. — I  have  this  moment  received  a  letter  and  some 
verses  from  my  dear  Francois,*  in  reply  to  the  piece 
which  I  had  addressed  to  him.  This  friendship  I  have 
formed  with  him  is  delightful.  Frangois  is  one  of  the 
freshest,  the  purest,  the  most  consoling  souls  that  I  have 
ever  known.  Moreover,  he  is  a  poet,  and  nothing  else  ; 
a  poet,  not  by  effort  and  labor,  as  so  many  are,  but  by 
development  and  by  a  natural  gift  of  expression.  Poetry 
gushes  from  him  like  water  from  a  fountain.  His  frieilti- 
ship  is  so  much  the  dearer  to  me,  and  I  understand  his 
talent  so  much  the  better  as  I  am  far  from  deserving  the 
one  and  rivalling  the  other.  I  am  so  little  like  him  !  but 
I  find  comfort  in  thinking  that  friendship  springs  from 
contrasts. 

^th. — Five  or  six  days  of  sun  without  the  shadow  of  a 
cloud.  The  unfolding  of  the  leaves  is  almost  accomplish- 
ed. Nature  has  decked  herself  in  all  her  ornament. 
She  has  arrived  at  that  unique  moment  of  freshness,  of 
purity,  of  grace,  that  must  be  seized  as  it  passes,  for  it 
passes  quickly.  The  leaves  which  opened  yesterday  are 
tender  as  the  dew,  and  of  a  transparent  green  ;  I  hardly 
dare  touch  them  lest  they  should  wither.  The  day  before 
yesterday,  however,  I  gathered  a  few  with  !Elie — some 
beech-leaves,  to  make  a  dish  of  them,  after  the  manner 

*  M,  Fran9ois  du  Breil  de  Marzan,  author  of  "  La  Famille  et 
I'Autel." 


Journal,  95 

of  the  monks  of  St.  Bernard.  They  are  not  bad ;  they 
have  some  flavor,  but  they  are  rather  tough.  I  actually 
had  some  pangs  of  remorse  for  having  plucked  those 
poor  new-born  leaves.  They  would  have  lived  their  life, 
rejoiced  in  the  sun,  and  rocked  in  the  wind.  I  thought 
of  all  this  while  I  was  cutting  them,  and  yet  my  hand 
went  on  still  ravaging  the  boughs.  Moreover,  in  com- 
mitting this  little  act  of  cruelty,  I  had  one  of  those  inter- 
views with  Elie  which  come  from  time  to  time,  always 
with  a  charming  relief  to  the  soul.  As  we  went  home 
with  a  full  basket,  we  promised  each  other  to  pluck  some 
leaves  from  time  to  time,  to  keep  green  the  memory  of 
our  talk. 

La  Chenaie  has  the  air  of  a  gray  and  wrinkled  old 
woman,  transformed  by  the  fairies'  wand  into  a  young  and 
most  winning  girl  of  sixteen.  It  has  all  the  freshness, 
all  the  brilliancy,  all  the  mysterious  charm  of  maiden- 
hood. But,  alas  !  how  short  a  time  will  this  last !  M. 
F^li  showed  us  yesterday  some  leaves  already  perforated 
and  notched  by  the  insects. 

It  has  rained  all  night.  The  greenness  and  life  aug- 
ment. Towards  seven  o'clock  I  took  a  walk  along  the 
pond.  The  trees  hanging  over  the  water  were  dripping 
slowly,  and  each  drop  fell  upon  the  smooth  surface  with 
a  little  plaintive  echo.  One  would  have  said  that  the 
trees,  having  wept  all  night,  were  drying  their  tears. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  M.  Feli  to  us  day  before 
yesterday  evening,  "why  man  is  the  most  suffering  of 
creatures  ?  It  is  because  he  has  one  foot  in  the  finite 
and  the  other  in  the  infinite,  and  thus  is  torn  asunder,  not 
by  four  horses,  as  in  the  barbarous  ages,  but  by  two 
worlds." 

Again,  hearing  the    clock  strike,  he  said  :   "  If  you 


86  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

should  tell  this  clock  it  must  lose  its  head  the  next  minute, 
none  the  less  would  it  strike  the  hour  until  that  minute 
came.  My  children,  be  like  the  clock  ;  happen  what 
happen  must,  always  strike  your  hour." 

22d. — There  are  no  longer  flowers  on  the  trees. 
Their  mission  of  love  fulfilled,  they  are  dead  like  a  moth- 
er who  perishes  in  giving  life.  The  fruit  has  set ;  it  feels 
the  influence  of  the  vital  and  reproductive  energy  which 
is  to  throw  upon  the  world  new  individuals.  An  in- 
numerable generation  actually  hangs  on  the  branches  of 
all  the  trees,  on  the  fibres  of  the  most  insignificant  grass- 
es, like  babes  on  the  mother's  breast.  All  these  germs, 
incalculable  in  their  number  and  variety,  are  there  sus- 
pended in  their  cradle  between  heaven  and  earth,  and 
given  over  to  the  winds  whose  charge  it  is  to  rock  these 
beings.  Unseen  amid  the  living  forests  swing  the 
forests  of  the  future.  Nature  is  all  absorbed  in  the  vast 
cares  of  her  maternity. 

23^. — We  have  succeeded  in  launching  on  the  pond 
an  old  longboat  which  we  have  drawn  out  of  the  mire 
where  it  had  been  buried  for  more  than  a  year.  It  has 
cost  a  good  bit  to  repair  it,  but  we  are  well  paid  for  our 
trouble  by  the  pleasure  we  take  in  our  little  voyages. 
This  longboat  belonged  to  a  Swedish  ship.  Who  knows 
in  what  seas  she  has  sailed  ?  Had  she  made  the  tour  of 
the  world,  on  this  little  sheet  of  water  she  must  neverthe- 
less soon  go  to  decay. 

ywte  12th. — These  twenty  days  have  passed  wretch- 
edly, and  so  wretchedly  that  I  have  not  had  the  spirit  to 
write  a  word  here  or  elsewhere.  My  m.alady  has  re- 
turned with  extreme  violence,  and  has  almost  reduced 
me  to  despair.  It  is  equal  to  my  severest  sufferings  in 
the  past.     A  letter  from   Eugenie,  which   reached   me 


Journal.  87 

during  the  most  violent  paroxysm,  did  me  great  good  j 
but  it  was  necessary  that  the  crisis  should  have  its  course. 
God  and  good  angels,  have  pity  on  me  !  Save  me  from 
such  sufferings ! 

13M. — Except  for  the  verdure,  one  would  think  him- 
self in  December.  The  fine  weather  has  departed  I 
know  not  whither.  The  sun  will  lose  his  good  name  ;  it 
is  so  cold  that  one  shivers.  This  villainous  west  wind, 
with  its  innumerable  flocks  of  clouds,  has  taken  possession 
of  the  sky,  and  deluges  us  with  rain.  One  seems  to  see 
up  in  the  clouds  Winter,  passing  with  his  sombre  train. 
Nothing  can  be  more  disheartening  than  the  green-grow- 
ing earth,  and  the  rich  carpet  of  marvellous  pattern, 
which  Spring  has  spread  for  her  beautiful  feet,  contrasted 
with  the  canopy  of  heaven  all  black  with  rainy  clouds. 
I  picture  to  myself  a  wedding  solemnized  in  a  church 
hung  with  black.  Oh  !  besides,  even  in  the  finest  days, 
v/hat  a  difference  between  the  sky  of  Brittany  and  that 
of  our  South  !  Here,  Summer,  in  her  days  of  high  festival, 
has  always  something  gloomy,  veiled,  shut  in.  It  is  like 
a  miser  making  a  display  ;  there  is  always  a  churlishness 
in  his  magnificence.  Give  me  our  sky  of  Languedoc,  so 
lavish  in  light,  so  blue,  so  widely  arched ! 

i^th. — "  Strange  dream."  I  dreamed  that  I  was 
alone  in  a  vast  cathedral.  I  seemed  to  be  in  the 
presence  of  God,  and  in  that  state  of  the  soul  in  which 
one  is  conscious  only  of  God  and  of  oneself,  when  a 
voice  arose.  This  voice — the  voice  of  a  woman,  infinitely 
sweet, — nevertheless  filled  the  whole  church  like  a  vast 
chorus.  I  recognized  it  at  once  ;  it  was  the  voice  of 
L ,  "  silver-sweet  sounding." 

i^th. — Three  nights  in  succession  the  same  figure  has 
appeared  to  me.     What  am  I  to  think  of  that } 


88  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

23^. —  "I  know  well  that  I  am  a  poor,  spiritless 
creature."  O  !  how  well  said,  my  dear  Bernardin  !  How 
well  you  have  expressed  the  sentiment  of  a  soul  urged  to 
rise  above  its  sphere,  and  which,  deej^ly  conscious  of  its 
own  weakness,  utters  the  cry  which  you  represent  as  ad- 
dressed to  Virginia, — I  know  well  that  I  am  a  miserable 
creature  !  For  a  long  time  I  have  been  repeating  to  my- 
self these  words ;  they  are  the  summary  of  all  my 
labors,  of  my  whole  life.  Oh !  if  I  were  poor  on 
this  side  alone,  well  and  good  ;  but  my  poverty  is  almost 
universal — yes,  universal,  and  my  brain  will  never 
work  out  any  great  good,  neither  for  myself,  nor 
for  those  who  have  the  right  to  expect  something 
from  me.  That  it  is  which  distresses  me.  I  have 
mistaken  my  path.  By  taking  a  totally  opposite  direc- 
tion, I  could  have  done  something  useful.  It  is  im- 
possible to  carry  my  attempts  further  than  I  have 
already  done.  That  which  I  am  now  in  the  course  of 
completing  cannot  be  recalled.  After  that,  who  shall 
say  what  may  happen  to  me  ?  The  invisible  thread  of 
Providence  will  always  draw  me  to  the  better  side. 

2^th. — I  have  many  things  to  say  ;  let  me  hasten  to 
say  them.  I  have  an  annoyance  which  would  fain  declare 
itself,  and  find  vent  spite  of  everything.  My  soul  has 
suffered  so  much  that  I  ought  to  be  proof  against  pin- 
pricks, if  it  were  with  the  soul  as  with  the  body,  which 
grows  callous  under  blows  as  iron  hardens  under  the 
hammer.  But  with  the  soul  everything  goes  against  the 
grain.     I  should  like  extremely  "^        *         #         #         * 

yuly  Afth. — I  have  received  the  finishing  stroke.  Be- 
hold  me  well  and   duly  convicted  of  the  most   stupid 

*  The  end  of  this  sentence  is  erased  in  the  original  manuscript. 


Journal,  89 

awkwardness  that  can  be  imagined.  I  look  upon  this 
incident  as  a  judgment  without  appeal ;  and  so  much  the 
better,  in  one  way ;  it  will  teach  me  to  estimate  myself 
at  my  real  worth.  The  rate  of  my  valuation  is  henceforth 
fixed,  and  by  experts.  This  is  what  comes  of  listening 
to  vain  thoughts.  I  kept  saying  to  myself  that  sooner  or 
later  I  should  come  to  grief;  I  kept  ridiculing  myself;  to- 
day, I  have  played  the  braggart,  and  here  I  am  igno- 
miniously  driven  back  within  my  lines.  Oh  !  I  solemn- 
ly declare,  by  what  I  have  suffered  and  by  the  respect  I 
owe  to  my  soul,  that  I  have  made  my  last  sally.  I  intend 
to  barricade  myself  in,  immure  myself  against  every 
temptation,  as  immovable  as  a  boundary  stone,  even  if  I 
must  pine  away.  I  have  somewhere  read  that  thousands 
of  animalcules  swim  freely  in  a  drop  of  water ;  the  cir- 
cumference of  my  intellectual  domain  is  about  equal,  I 
think,  to  that  of  the  drop  ;  and  I  am  alone  in  it.  Have  I 
not  reason  to  be  happy  without  further  disturbing  my  re- 
pose by  dreams  of  ambition  ?  Oh !  yes,  my  little  world, 
my  invisible  wee  drop,  thou  art  mine  alone,  and  to  thee 
alone  will  I  henceforth  belong.  If  I  meet  with  some 
being  as  insignificant  as  myself  who  begs  to  be  let  in,  I 
will  gladly  show  him  hospitality,  I  will  receive  him  cordially, 
grateful  for  the  sympathy  which  has  prompted  him  to 
knock  at  my  door  ;  I  will  lead  him  all  through  my  dwell- 
ing, exposing  all  details  to  his  curiosity,  as  though  it 
were  a  palace  ;  we  will  talk  with  delight  of  a  thousand  lit- 
tle, little  things,  which  will  be,  for  us,  most  important  affairs  ; 
pleasures,  pains,  labors,  discoveries,  philosophy,  poetry,  all 
these  will  be  discussed  in  our  interviews,  but  in  proportions 
suited  to  the  infinitesimal  limit  of  our  conceptions  and  to 
the  diminutive  scope  of  our  souls.  After  having  regaled 
ourselves  to  our  hearts'  content  with  talk  and  sympathy. 


90  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

I  shall  conduct  my  guest  as  far  as  the  door,  and,  leaving 
him  a  kiss  and  a  good-by  (two  touching  things  which 
always  go  in  company),  I  shall  slide  the  bolts  and  keep 
snug  within  my  microscopic  universe,  until  the  knocker 
again  announces  that  a  sympathetic  heart  waits  without 
to  send  greeting  to  me. 

I'jth. — Yesterday,  I  saw  swallows  flying  in  the  clouds, 
an  omen  of  fair  weather  which  has  not  deceived  me.  I 
am  writing  at  the  close  of  a  beautiful  day,  very  brilliant, 
very  warm,  after  a  month  and  a  half  of  clouds  and  cold  ] 
but  this  fine  sun,  which  generally  does  me  so  much  good, 
has  passed  over  me  like  a  quenched  star  ;  it  has  left  me 
as  it  found  me,  cold,  frozen,  insensible  to  all  external  im- 
pression, and  suffering,  in  the  little  of  me  that  is  still 
alive,  baxTcn  and  miserable  experiences.  My  inner  life 
pines  every  day,  and  I  sink  deeper  I  know  not  into  what 
abyss,  and  already  I  must  have  reached  a  great  depth, 
for  light  has  almost  ceased  to  come  to  me,  and  I  feel  a 
coldness  creeping  over  me.  Oh  !  I  know  well  what  it  is 
that  drags  me  down  j  I  have  always  said  it,  and  to-day, 
in  falling,  will  say  it  more  strongly  than  ever ;  it  is  the 
distressing  conviction  of  my  impotence,  it  is  this  fatal  im- 
potence, a  tendency  whose  germ  I  brought  hither,  and 
which,  during  these  eight  months,  has  so  strengthened  that 
it  has  finished  by  crushing,  overwhelming  me,  and  has 
hurled  me  down  a  precipice  whose  depths  are  limitless. 
Yes,  I  am  falling,  that  is  certain,  for  I  no  longer  see  what 
I  once  saw  ;  what  I  once  felt,  I  no  longer  feel. 

August  ist. — For  some  time  past,  like  a  converted 
sinner,  I  have  forced  myself  to  love  what  I  hated,  and  to ' 
hate  what  I  loved.     I  have  solemnly  forsworn  poetry, 
contemplation,  all  my  ideal  life.     I  have  promised  my- 
self to  live  contentedly  in  a  little  world  of  my  own  fashion- 


Journal,  91 

ing,  whence  I  have  banished  all  the  beautiful  phantoms 
which  peopled  the  world  I  formerly  inhabited.  I  have 
thought  that  an  existence  circumscribed  by  a  very  narrow 
circle  of  fact,  confined  like  the  ant  in  a  little  hole  hollow- 
ed in  the  sand,  would  be  worth  more  to  me  than  those 
adventurous  but  barren  excursions  of  thought  into  a 
world  which  has  so  decidedly  repelled  me.  But  alas  ! 
it  is  decreed  that  my  poor  imagination  shall  have  no 
place  of  rest  here  below.  This  little  corner  that  I  had 
chosen  for  it  in  the  realities  of  life,  in  order  that  it  might 
slumber  there,  refuses  it  shelter,  as  already  the  ideal 
sphere  has  done.  What  will  become  of  me  in  this  state 
of  suspense  between  two  spheres  of  action,  in  this  region 
where  thought  sustains  itself  only  because  it  is  equally 
repelled  by  both  ? 

\2th. — I  come  here  now  only  at  long  intervals,  because 
sweet  and  edifying  hours  revisit  me  only  from  time  to 
time.  Such  a  chill  has  seized  my  soul  that  everything 
that  comes  in  contact  with  it  is  instantly  benumbed.  I 
know  not  what  paralysis  has  stricken  me  ;  I  know  not 
what  indifference,  a  hundred  times  more  painful  than 
the  most  nervous  sensibility,  causes  me  to  pass  entire 
weeks  without  taking  heed  of  anything. 

\\th. — After  a  long  series  of  radiant  days,  I  like 
much,  on  some  fine  morning,  to  find  the  sky  hung  with 
gray,  and  all  nature  reposing,  in  a  sort  of  melancholy 
calm,  from  her  festival  days.  It  is  exactly  so  to-day. 
An  immense,  motionless  veil,  without  a  single  fold,  covers 
the  whole  face  of  the  sky  ;  the  horizon  is  circled  with  a 
heavy  crown  of  blueish  vapors  ;  not  a  breath  of  air. 
Favored  by  this  silence,  every  sound  arising  from  the  far- 
away fields  reaches  the  ear — the  songs  of  the  laborer,  the 
voices  of  children,  chirpings  and  the   peculiar  cries  of 


92  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

animals,  and  from  time  to  time  a  dog  barking  I  know  not 
where,  and  cocks  who  signal  each  other  like  sentinels. 
Within  me,  also,  all  is  calm  and  tranquil.  A  gray  and 
pensive  veil  has  fallen  over  my  soul,  like  the  peaceful 
clouds  over  Nature.  A  great  silence  reigns,  and  I  hear, 
as  it  were,  the  voices  of  a  thousand  sweet  and  touching 
recollections,  which  arise  in  the  far-off  past  and  come 
murmuring  to  my  ear. 

2^th. — To-morrow  it  will  be  a  year  since  I  set  out  for 

R J  with  Eugenie.     Sweet  anniversary  !     To-morrow 

also  will  be  for  me  a  day  of  travel.  I  am  going  to  La 
Brousse  to  pass  a  few  days  of  friendship  and  comfort 
with  my  dear  Frangois. 

September  ist. — Alas  !  then,  this  is  the  way  in  which 
everything  ends — regrets,  tears  !  It  is  just  an  hour  since 
I  returned  from  a  charming  little  journey,  and  I  am  weep- 
ing like  a  child,  and  am  consumed  with  regret  for  a  hap- 
piness which  I  ought  to  have  enjoyed  without  clinging  to 
it,  knowing  that  it  must  be  very  brief ;  but  it  is  always 
thus.  Every  time  that  I  fall  in  with  some  little  happi- 
ness, it  is  desolation  to  part  from  it,  because  I  know,  that 
I  must  fall  back  upon  myself  and  resume  my  painful 
routine. 

3^. — Behold  me  struggling  in  a  terrible  situation,  me 
with  the  weakest  of  all  characters,  the  most  timid  of  all 
wills. 

26th. — The  associations  which  cling  to  natural  ob- 

Ploermel,  October  1st. — I  know  not  what  stopped 
me  short  in  the  midst  of  my  fine  phrase,  but  I  wished  to 
express  what  came  into  my  mind  at  the  sight  of  a  dense 
fog  weighing  upon  the  landscape.  When  the  sun  had 
risen  a  little  above  the  horizon,  I  saw  all  this  fog  gradu- 


Journal  (^';i^ 

ally  brighten,  and,  penetrated  with  light,  begin  its  upward 
movement  toward  the  sky,  where  it  soon  vanished.  Be- 
fore a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  passed,  it  was  beautifully 
serene ;  but,  some  time  after  the  centre  of  the  horizon 
had  cleared,  I  still  saw  trails  of  fog  sweeping  along  the 
distant  crests  like  the  last  fugitives  of  a  routed  army,  and 
it  was  to  this  that  my  association  and  my  unfinished 
phrase  related.  Last  year,  on  a  similar  occasion,  I  was 
also  looking  at  the  fogs  rising  into  the  sky  and  unhood- 
ing  the  mountains,  and  in  these  majestic  regions,  this 
spectacle  assumed  a  character  of  infinite  grandeur.  One 
might  almost  believe  he  saw  the  primitive  shadows  flee- 
ing away — God,  like  a  sculptor,  lifting  with  his  hand  the 
drapeiy  which  veiled  his  work,  and  the  earth  exposed  in 
all  the  purity  of  its  earliest  forms  to  the  rays  of  the 
primal  sun.  But  this  was  not  yet  the  essence  of  the  asso- 
ciation. Often,  at  the  moment  when  the  fog  began  to 
lift  from  the  earth  and  become  transparent,  and  when, 
my  forehead  pressed  against  the  panes,  I  watched  the 
changes  of  the  mist,  a  blue  dress —        #        *        * 

Heavens !  how  beautiful  the  sky  is,  this  evening !  As 
I  was  writing  the  last  sentence,  I  turned  my  head  towards 
the  window,  and  my  eyes  were  flooded  with  tints  so  soft, 
so  delicate,  so  velvet-like, — I  saw  so  many  wonderful 
things  in  the  horizon,  that  I  could  not  refrain  from  throw- 
ing in  here  this  exclamation  of  rapture.  It  is  the  autumn 
twilight  in  all  its  melancholy.  The  distant  clumps  of 
woods,  their  majestic  plumes  capriciously  undulating, 
shut  in  the  view  with  charming  effect.  The  trees,  isolated, 
whether  by  their  position  or  by  their  great  size,  present 
an  expression,  a  character,  I  might  almost  say  features 
which  seem  to  indicate,  as  it  were,  the  mute  passions  and 
unknown  things  which  exist,  perhaps,  under  the  bark  of 


94  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

these  motionless  beings.  With  their  attitudes  and  the 
nodding  of  their  heads,  they  seem,  in  the  evening  ghm- 
mer,  to  be  acting  I  know  not  what  mysterious  scene. 
Each  day,  since  I  came  here,  the  twilight  has  given  me 
some  of  these  magnificent  representations. 

A  blue  dress,  as  I  said,  flitted  rapidly  through  the 
mist,  and  disappeared  in  those  white  shadows,  like  the 
blue  bird  which  skims  along  the  ponds  and  streams. 
Sometimes  this  apparition  fled  along,  singing,  and  left 
behind  her  a  flow  of  silvery  notes,  as  it  were,  which  rip- 
pled forth  with  ineflable  melody.  A  quarter  of  an  hour 
later,  when  the  atmosphere  had  become  clear,  and  the 
lingering  trail  of  the  fog  was  still  creeping  along  the  tops 

of  the  most  distant  mountains,  I  saw  L enter  with  a 

slow  step  and  a  serious  air,  like  a  philosopher  emerging 
from  a  revery. 

I  have  wept  over  leave-takings  last  year  and  this, 
almost  date  for  date.  One  must  not  compare  these 
regrets — they  are  of  too  diverse  a  nature  :  they  resemble 
each  other  only  in  their  depth.  Both  are  inexpressible. 
If  I  wished  to  draw  a  strong  parallel  between  them,  I 
would  say  that  last  year,  in  September,  at  two  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  under  a  clear  sky,  I  said  farewell  to 
that  happiness  which  is  found  at  a  certain  point  in  the 
path  of  life,  which  leads  you  a  few  leagues,  entertaining 
you  with  the  enrapturing  words  of  an  angel,  and  then 
suddenly,  let  a  cross-road  appear,  takes  the  left  if  you 
are  taking  the  right,  saying  with  a  mocking  sweetness  : 
"Traveller!  adieu!  a  pleasant  journey,  traveller  !  "  And 
I  should  add  that  this  year,  in  September,  at  four  o'clock 
in  the  evening,  in  gray  and  foggy  weather,  I  have  em- 
braced, at  parting,  a  man  whom  I  love  with  that  ardent 
affection,  like  no  other,  kindled  in  the  depth  of  the  soul, 


Journal.  95 

I  know  not  by  what  strange  power  peculiar  to  men  of 
genius.  M.  Feli  has  been  my  guide  in  Hfe  during  nine 
months,  at  the  end  of  which  the  fatal  cross-road  has  ap- 
peared. The  habit  of  living  with  him  has  made  me  heed- 
less of  what  was  passing  in  my  soul ;  but  since  I  no 
longer  see  him,  I  am  conscious  of  a  great  laceration,  as 
it  were,  at  the  moment  of  separation. 

2d. — Six  o'clock  in  the  evening.  It  is  the  moment 
when  recollections  throng  upon  me  by  thousands,  like 
the  birds  that  flock  at  the  same  hour  to  the  rendezvous 
they  have  appointed  in  a  great  poplar,  where  they  chatter 
confusedly  until  night  puts  them  to  sleep.  The  sunset 
is  enchanting.  The  clouds,  which  have  escorted  him  to 
the  west,  open  at  the  horizon,  like  a  group  of  courtiers 
who  see  the  king  approaching,  and  then  close  after  his 
passage.  The  sun  having  set,  some  of  these  clouds 
return  and  again  mount  the  sky,  arrayed  in  the  most 
beautiful  colors.  The  more  sluggish  remain  at  the  gates 
of  the  palace,  like  a  company  of  guards  with  gilded  shields. 
These  clouds  do  not  quite  touch  the  horizon  :  a  luminous 
belt,  tapering  towards  the  extremities,  runs  between  them 
and  the  blue  line  of  the  earth.  A  few  slim  poplars  in 
the  distance,  which  seem  to  spring  from  this  blue  line, 
and  whose  slender  forms  are  clearly  defined  against  the 
pure,  luminous  belt,  represent  the  masts  of  ships  at 
anchor  on  the  horizon  of  the  sea. 

A,th. — If  I  knew  something  of  drawing,  I  should  have 
brought  back  some  sketch  of  our  yesterday's  trip  to 
Josselin.  I  have  at  last  seen  an  old  baronial  castle. 
Enormous  towers,  Cyclopean  ramparts,  inclose  within 
their  massive  zone  an  architecture  in  appearance  the 
most  graceful,  the  most  slender,  the  most  frail,  one  of 
those  dreams  of  the  middle  a^e,  embroidered  in  air  upon 


96  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

stone  with  the  delicacy  of  a  fairy-needle.  At  twilight, 
take  a  leaf  whose  pulp  has  been  devoured  by  insects, 
and  by  the  dying  light  consider  this  net-work  of  delicate 
veins  and  fibres ;  you  will  have,  as  it  were,  a  miniature 
of  the  fanciful  traceries  of  Gothic  art, 

^th. — The  most  beautiful  days,  the  most  agreeable 
studies  cannot  allay  in  me  this  moaning  thought  which 
is  the  ceaseless  refrain  of  humanity. 

14M. — While  I  go  on  pursuing  a  swarm  of  vain 
thoughts,  like  a  man  who  has  nothing  more  to  trouble 
him,  my  whole  future  is  upset.  They  tell  me  that  I 
must  mingle  again  with  the  world.  Strange  caprice ! 
I  have  caught  myself  a  hundred  times  longing  for  its 
untried  life,  and  to-day,  when  solitude  and  retirement 
have  set  me  adrift,  the  world  affrights  me.  Oh!  the 
truth  is,  this  was  my  niche ;  in  spite  of  my  whims  and 
my  freaks  of  worldliness,  I  cling  to  it  with  all  my  heart. 
I  was  beginning  to  see  clearly  into  my  destiny,  and  now 
once  more  all  is  unintelligible.  Great  God !  'tis  cruel 
indeed !  What  would'st  thou  do  with  me,  then,  among 
men  ?  What  will  become,  in  that  whirlpool,  of  me,  the 
most  feeble  of  creatures  ?  Oh  !  in  this  I  well  know  my 
trial  lies.  I  thought  I  was  sufficiently  convinced  of  my 
impotence,  of  my  weakness,  of  the  diseased  and  imper- 
fect organization  of  my  moral  nature.  Alas !  it  seems 
that  I  am  not  sufficiently  convinced  of  it,  since  I  am 
sent  back  into  the  world,  that  great  destroyer  of  all 
inner  joy,  of  all  noble  energy,  of  all  innocent  hope. 

24M. — Truly,  a  ramble  in  the  fields  is  ever  a  fresh 
delight.  What  happiness  to  fling  off  this  dull  chain  of 
every-day  life,  and  escape  into  the  country,  where  one 
breathes  freely;  where  one  tastes  the  exalted  pleasure 
of  a  few  hours'  liberty ;  where  the  heart  is  lifted  and 


Journal,  97 

the  thoughts  turn  to  contemplation ;  where  one  is  en- 
chanted to  find  one's  humanity  face  to  face  with  Nature. 
We  made  the  circuit  of  a  pond  two  leagues  in  circum- 
ference. It  was  long  since  I  had  taken  so  much  pleasure 
in  an  excursion.  The  sight  of  water  always  charms  me 
exceedingly,  and  to-day  everything  was  as  enchanting  as 
I  could  wish.  This  pond  stretches  its  beautiful  form 
between  two  woods,  whose  borders  describe  lines  grace- 
ful in  their  irregularity.  At  the  close  of  day,  there  was 
something  infinitely  melancholy  in  this  green  and  shadowy 
sheet  of  water,  in  the  pale  color  of  the  woods  beginning 
to  cast  their  leaves,  and  the  gray  tint  of  the  sky  where 
flocks  of  crows  and  wild  ducks  were  silently  passing. 
A  thousand  sweet,  sad  thoughts  came  to  me.  I  remem- 
bered that  in  my  childhood,  at  this  same  hour,  I  loved 
to  sit  on  the  terrace  at  Le  Cayla,  and  watch  the  passing 
birds  seeking  a  shelter  for  the  night. 

Le  Val,  December  "jth. — After  a  year  of  perfect  calm, 
save  internal  storms,  for  which  solitude  is  not  to  be 
blamed — for  it  has  wrapped  me  in  such  peace  and  quiet, 
that  a  soul  less  restless  than  mine  would  have  been  de- 
liciously  cradled  ; — after  a  year,  as  I  say,  of  this  complete 
rest,  my  fate,  which  had  led  me  into  the  holy  retreat  to 
find  some  repose,  has  knocked  at  the  door  to  recall  me ; 
for  she  had  not  gone  on  her  way,  but  had  seated  herself 
upon  the  threshold,  waiting  until  I  had  recovered  suffi- 
cient strength  to  resume  my  journey.  "  Thou  hast  tarried 
long  enough,"  said  she  to  me  ;  "  come,  forward  !  "  And 
she  has  taken  me  by  the  hand,  and  behold  her  again  on 
the  march,  like  those  poor  women  one  meets  on  the  road, 
leading  a  child,  who  follows  with  a  sorrowful  air.  But 
what  folly  to  complain !  and  are  there  in  the  world  no 
other  sufferings  than  mine  to  water  with  my  tears  ?  I 
5 


98  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

will  henceforth  say  to  the  sources  of  my  tears,  "  Cease 
your  flowing;"  and  to  the  Lord,  "Lord,  hearken  not 
to  my  complaints,"  as  often  as  I  invoke  the  Lord  and 
my  tears  in  my  own  behalf;  for  it  is  well  that  I  should 
suffer — I,  who  can  obtain  nothing  in  heaven  by  the  merit 
of  deeds,  and  who  will  obtain  my  little  something  only 
by  virtue  of  suffering,  like  all  feeble  souls.  Such  souls 
have  no  wings  to  rise  to  heaven,  and  the  Lord,  who 
nevertheless  wishes  that  they  should  come  thither,  sends 
them  aid.  He  piles  around  them  the  thorny  faggots, 
and  causes  the  fire  of  anguish  to  descend ;  the  wood  con- 
sumed, it  springs  to  heaven  in  the  form  of  a  white  vapor, 
like  the  doves  that  used  to  take  their  flight  from  the 
midst  of  the  dying  flames  of  the  martyrs'  stake.  It  is 
the  soul  which  has  consummated  its  sacrifice,  and  which 
the  fire  of  tribulation  has  made  so  etherial  that  it  may 
soar  to  heaven,  like  a  smoke.  AVood  is  heavy  and  inert ; 
but  add  the  element  of  fire,  and  even  a  part  of  that 
rises  to  the  clouds. 

Lord,  I  am  one  of  those  souls.  I  must  not  then  shed 
tears  to  extinguish  the  fires  of  my  martyrdom.  But  I 
will  shed  floods  of  tears  for  those  who  suffer,  and  suffer 
unjustly.  Above  all,  I  will  shed  them  for  Him  who  is 
to-day  a  prey  to  the  deepest  bitterness,  and  who  has 
already  wrought  so  much  good  that  He  seems  to  abound 
in  merit,  without  needing  to  gain  new  merits  by  the  path 
of  suffering.  I  will  weep  over  Him  and  over  those  who 
do  Him  wrong — wrong  that  recoils  on  me.  Jesus  Christ 
having  shed  upon  His  murderers  the  priceless  virtue  of 
His  blood,  the  least  that  men  can  do  is  to  weep  over  their 
enemies. 

I  will  hold  sacred  these  tears  and  the  treasured 
memories  which  I  bear  away  from  this  blissful  roof  of 


Journal,  99 

La  Chenaie,  which  for  a  year  has  sheltered  my  life,  hid- 
den in  the  bosom  of  a  priest  whom  men  count  among 
the  glories  of  the  earth,  and  whom  the  saints  claim  as 
one  of  them  in  heaven.  Although  my  grief  be  very  bitter, 
I  will  not  hang  my  harp  on  the  willows  by  the  river,  be- 
cause the  Christian,  unlike  the  Israelite,  should  sing  the 
song  of  God  and  of  the  Son  of  God,  even  in  a  strange 
land. 

And  see  how  full  of  goodness  Providence  is  to  me. 
For  fear  that  the  sudden  transition  from  the  mild  and 
tempered  air  of  a  religious  and  solitary  life  to  the  torrid 
zone  of  the  world,  should  try  my  soul  too  sorely,  it  has 
led  me,  on  leaving  the  holy  retreat,  into  a  home  standing 
on  the  confines  of  the  two  regions,  where,  without  being 
in  solitude,  one  still  belongs  not  to  the  world ;  a  house 
whose  windows,  on  one  side,  open  upon  the  plain  where 
sways  the  tumult  of  man,  and  on  the  other,  upon  a  desert 
where  chant  the  servants  of  God.  I  wish  to  record  here 
the  history  of  my  sojourn  in  it,  for  the  days  passed  here 
are  full  of  happiness,  and  I  know  that  in  the  future  I 
shall  turn  back  many  a  time  to  reperuse  their  vanished 
joy.  A  religious  man  and  a  poet  ;*  a  woman  so  well 
fitted  to  him  that  they  seem  but  a  twofold  soul ;  a  child 
who  is  named  for  her  mother,  Marie,  and  the  first  rays 
of  whose  love  and  intelligence  are  piercing,  like  a  star, 
the  white  cloud  of  childhood.  A  simple  life,  in  an  old 
house ;  the  ocean  morning  and  evening  sending  us  its 
harmonies  ;  finally,  a  traveller  descending  from  Carmel 
to  go  to  Babylon,  who,  laying  down  his  staff  and  sandals, 
has  seated  himself  at  the  hospitable  table  :  here  is  mate- 


*  Hippolyte     La    Morvonnais,    author    of    the     Thebdide    de$ 
Greves. 


lOO  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

rial  for  a  biblical  poem,  if  I  could  write  things  as  I  feel 
them.* 

Wi. — Yesterday  the  wind  blew  furiously  from  the 
west.  I  have  seen  the  sea  in  commotion,  but  this 
tumult,  sublime  as  it  is,  is  far  inferior,  to  my  taste,  to 
the  view  of  the  ocean  calm  and  blue.  But  why  say  that 
the  one  is  not  equal  to  the  other  ?  Who  could  measure 
these  two  sublime  sights  and  say.  The  second  surpasses 
the  first  ?  We  must  simply  say :  my  soul  finds  more 
pleasure  in  the  calm  than  in  the  storm.  Yesterday,  one 
wide  battle  waged  on  the  watery  plains.  To  see  the 
leaping  waves,  the  thought  would  have  been  of  those 
countless  squadrons  of  Tartars,  galloping  incessantly 
over  the  plains  of  Asia.  The  entrance  to  the  bay  is 
guarded,  as  it  were,  by  a  chain  of  granite  islets  :  it  was 
glorious  to  see  the  surges  rushing  to  the  assault,  and 
hurling  themselves  frantically,  with  frightful  clamors, 
against  the  masses  of  rock ;  to  see  them  take  their  line 
of  attack,  and  vie  with  each  other  which  should  first  sur- 
mount the  black  head  of  the  reefs.  The  boldest  or  the 
most  agile  vaulted  over  with  a  loud  shout;  the  others, 
lumbering  on  more  awkwardly,  dashed  against  the  rock, 
flinging  showers  of  spray  of  a  dazzling  whiteness,  and 
fell  back  with  a  low,  muffled  growling,  like  watch-dogs 
beaten  back  by  the  traveller's  staff. 

We  witnessed  these  wild  struggles  from  the  top  of  a 
cliff,  where  we  found  it  difficult  to  withstand  the  buffets 
of  the  wind.     The  vast  tumult  of  the  sea,  the  clamorous 

*  In  the  first  edition  may  be  found  a  different  version  of  the  end 
of  this  passage,  and  of  the  four  passages  which  follow.  In  this  edi- 
tion we  have  substituted,  after  the  text  of  the  Greejt  Note-book,  a 
version  which  the  author  had  afterwards  written  on  loose  leaves, 
and  which,  without  doubt,  he  himself  preferred. 


.   Journal,  loi 

rush  of  the  waves,  the  equally  rapid,  but  silent  sweep  of 
the  clouds,  the  sea-birds  hovering  in  the  sky  and  bal- 
ancing their  slender  bodies  between  two  arched  wings 
that  seemed  to  spread  indefinitely,  this  entire  assemblage 
of  wild  and  echoing  harmonies,  all  centering  in  the  souls 
of  two  beings  five  feet  high,  planted  upon  the  crest  of  a 
cliff,  shaken  like  leaves  by  the  violence  of  the  wind,  and 
hardly  more  visible  in  that  immensity  than  two  birds 
perched  upon  a  clod  of  earth — oh !  it  was  something 
mysterious  and  awful,  one  of  those  mingled  moments  of 
sublime  excitement  and  profound  meditation,  when  the 
soul  and  Nature,  drawing  themselves  to  their  full  height, 
confront  each  other. 

From  the  height  we  descended  into  a  gorge  which 
forms  a  retreat  for  the  sea,  such  as  the  ancients  knew 
how  to  describe,  where  peaceful,  murmuring  waves  come 
to  sleep,  while  their  wilder  brothers  lash  the  rocks  and 
struggle  together.  Enormous  blocks  of  gray  granite, 
mottled  with  white  moss,  are  scattered  in  confusion  over 
the  hill-side  which  has  opened  to  receive  this  bay.  So 
oddly  do  they  lie,  and  so  far  over  the  edge  do  they  lean, 
one  would  say  that  a  giant  had  some  day  amused  himself 
in  casting  them  from  the  top  of  the  bank,  and  that  their 
course  had  been  arrested  wherever  an  obstacle  had  been 
encountered  ;  some,  a  few  steps  from  the  point  of  depar- 
ture, others,  half-way  down  the  bank  j  but  yet  seemed 
they  rather  suspended  than  arrested,  or  rather  they  seem- 
ed to  be  still  rolling.  The  noise  of  the  winds  and  waves 
which  resounds  in  this  echoing  cavern  sends  forth  the 
most  beautiful  harmonies.  We  made  quite  a  long  stay 
there,  leaning,  all  wonder-struck,  upon  our  staffs. 

(^th. — The  moon  and  some  stars  were  still  shining, 
when  the  bell  summoned  us  to  mass.     I  like  particularly 


I02  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

this  morning  mass  said  between  the  last  gleams  of  the 
stars  and  the  first  rays  of  the  sun. 

In  the  evening,  Hippolyte  and  I  strolled  along  the 
coast.  We  wished  to  see  what  the  ocean  is  like  at  the 
close  of  a  gray  and  calm  December  day.  The  fog  con- 
cealed the  offing,  but  gave  sufficient  range  of  view  to 
suggest  the  infinity  of  waters.  We  were  posted  on  a 
point  where  stands  a  custom-house  officer's  hut,  and  we 
leaned  against  the  hut.  On  the  right,  a  wood,  spread 
over  the  slope  of  the  coast,  displayed  in  the  paling  light 
its  bare,  ragged  branches,  rustling  gently.  On  the  left, 
far  in  the  distance,  the  tower  of  the  l^bihens  now  half 
vanished  as  it  merged  in  the  shadows,  now  reappeared 
with  a  faint  light  on  its  face,  when  a  stealthy  ray  of 
twilight  managed  to  slip  through  the  clouds.  The  noise 
of  the  sea  was  calm  and  dreamy  as  in  the  most  beautiful 
days  ;  only  it  had  something  more  mournful.  Our  ears 
followed  this  voice  v/hich  gradually  sounded  all  along  the 
coast,  and  we  drew  breath  again  only  after  the  surge 
which  had  given  birth  to  it  had  retired  to  make  way  for 
its  successor.  I  think  this  extraordinary,  vibrating  song 
of  the  sea  springs  from  the  deep  hea\7'  voice  of  the  surf, 
rolling  up  and  breaking,  united  with  the  light  and  pebbly 
noise  of  the  same  surf  as  it  retires,  gently  washing  the 
sand  and  the  shells.  But  why  analyze  this  music.  I 
shall  never  say  anything  worthy  of  the  subject,  for  I 
understand  nothing  of  analysis.  Let  me  return,  then,  to 
sentiment. 

The  darkness  was  thickening  about  us,  and  still  v/e 
did  not  dream  of  going,  for  the  harmony  of  the  sea  went 
on  increasing  in  proportion  as  all  sounds  of  earth  ceased, 
and  night  unfolded  her  mysteries.  Like  those  statues 
which  the  ancients  used  to  place  on  the  promontories,  we 


Journal,  103 

Gtood  motionless,  fascinated,  as  it  were,  and  spell-bound 
by  the  charm  of  the  ocean  and  the  night.  We  gave  no 
sign  of  life  save  by  raising  the  head  when  we  heard  the 
whistling  wings  of  the  wild  ducks  pass. 

The  course  of  my  wandering  fortunes  has  led  me  to  a 
solitary  cape  of  Brittany,  there  to  dream  away  an  autumn 
evening.  There,  for  a  few  hours,  were  hushed  all  those 
inner  voices  which  have  never  been  really  quieted  since 
the  first  tempest  arose  in  my  bosom.  There,  all  sweet 
and  heavenly  sadnesses  flocked  into  my  soul  with  the  har- 
monies of  the  sea,  and  my  soul  wandered  as  in  a  paradise 
of  reveries.  Oh  !  when  I  shall  have  left  Le  Val  and 
poured  my  farewell  tears  into  the  bosom  of  your  friend- 
ship— when  I  am  in  Paris,  where  there  is  neither  valley, 
nor  ocean,  nor  souls  like  yours — when  I  go  about  alone 
with  my  sadness,  and  my  soul  sinks  in  despair,  oh !  what 
tears  I  shall  shed  at  the  thought  of  our  evenings  !  For^ 
happiness  is  the  fine,  soft  rain  which  penetrates  the  soul, 
but  which  afterwards  gushes  from  it  in  springs  of  tears. 

2Qth. — I  have  nevei  enjoyed  with  so  much  intimacy 
and  seclusion  the  happiness  of  home-life.  Never  has  the 
perfume  which  is  wafted  through  all  the  rooms  of  a  re- 
ligious and  happy  home  so  completely  enveloped  me.  It 
is  like  a  cloud  of  invisible  incense  that  I  breathe  con- 
tinually. All  these  minute  details  of  familiar  life,  whose 
successive  links  constitute  my  day,  are  so  many  shades 
of  a  perpetual  delight  which  goes  on  unfolding  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end  of  the  day. 

The  morning  greeting,  which  renews  in  some  sort  the 
pleasure  of  my  first  arrival, — for  we  accost  each  other  in 
nearly  the  same  form  of  words,  and  besides  the  separa- 
tion at  night  is  somewhat  typical  of  longer  separations, 
like  them  full  of  dangers  and  uncertainties ; — breakfast, 


I04  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

when  we  forthwith  celebrate  the  joy  of  re-union  ;  the  sub- 
sequent walk,  a  sort  of  greeting  and  adoration  that  we 
offer  to  Nature  ;  our  return  and  our  seclusion  in  an  old 
wainscoted  chamber,  looking  out  on  the  sea,  inaccessible 
to  the  noise  of  the  house — in  a  word,  a  perfect  sanctuary 
of  labor ;  dinner,  announced  to  us  not  by  the  sound  of  the 
bell,  which  savors  too  much  of  the  college  or  a  fine  house, 
but  by  a  gentle  voice  ;  the  gayety,  the  lively  jests,  the 
rippling  flow  of  talk  rising  and  falling  during  the  entire 
meal ;  the  crackling  fire  of  dry  brush  around  which  we 
draw  our  chairs  just  afterwards ;  the  tender  things  we 
say  in  the  warmth  of  the  fire  roaring  as  we  chat,  and  if 
the  weather  is  fine,  the  stroll  by  the  side  of  the  ocean 
which  runs  to  welcome  our  party — a  mother,  her  child  in 
her  arms,  the  father  of  the  child,  and  a  stranger,  these 
last  two  each  with  a  stick  in  his  hand  ;  the  rosy  lips  of 
the  little  girl  who  prattles  to  the  tune  of  the  waves,  the 
tears  that  she  sometimes  sheds  and  the  cries  of  childish 
grief  on  the  border  of  the  sea  ;  our  thoughts  when  we  see 
the  mother  and  child  smiling  at  each  other,  or  the  child 
weeping  and  the  mother  seeking  to  soothe  her  with  the 
sweetness  of  her  caresses  and  her  voice  ;  the  ocean,  which 
goes  on  rolling  continuously  its  waves  and  noises  \  the 
dead  branches  that  we  cut,  as  we  stray  hither  and  thither 
in  the  copses,  to  make  a  quick  and  cheerful  fire  on  our 
return  ;  this  little  experiment  in  wood-craft,  which  brings 
us  near  to  Nature,  and  makes  us  think  of  M.  Feli's  peculiar 
love  for  the  same  occupation;  the  hours  of  study  and 
poetic  out-pouring,  which  carry  us  along  to  supper-time  ; 
this  meal  to  which  we  are  summoned  by  the  same  gentle 
voice,  spent  in  the  same  pleasures  as  the  dinner-hour, 
but  less  boisterous,  because  evening  softens  and  subdues 
everything  •  the  evening,  opening  with  the  sparkle  of  a 


JournalP^^t,  ^^^^_  ^       1 05 

cheerful  fire,  and  passing  in  alternate  reading  and  talking, 
to  die  away  in  sleep  ;  to  all  the  charms  of  a  day  thus 
spent,  add  that  indescribable,  angelic  beaming,  that  halo 
of  peace,  of  freshness  and  innocence  diffused  by  the 
blond  hair,  the  blue  eyes,  the  silvery  voice,  the  laughter, 
the  little  knowing  poutings  of  a  child  who,  I  feel  certain, 
makes  more  than  one  angel  jealous,  who  enchants  you, 
bewitches  you,  makes  you  dotingly  fond,  by  a  simple 
motion  of  her  lips — such  is  the  power  of  helplessness  ! — to 
all  this  add  finally  the  dreams  of  the  imagination,  and 
you  will  still  be  far  from  attaining  the  limit  of  all  these 
domestic  delights. 

21st. — For  some  days  the  weather  has  been  at  its 
worst.  The  rain  falls  and  the  wind  blows  in  gusts,  but 
with  such  fury  that  everything  seems  to  be  given  over  to 
these  terrible  hail-storms.  Three  nights  in  succession 
have  I  been  startled  from  my  sleep  by  one  of  these  squalls, 
which  occur  regularly  towards  midnight.  They  assault 
the  house  so  furiously  that  everything  in  it  shakes  and 
trembles.  I  half  rise  in  my  bed  and  listen  to  the  tempest 
as  it  passes,  and  a  thousand  thoughts  which  lay  sleeping, 
some  on  the  surface,  others  in  the  depths  of  my  soul, 
awake  in  excitement. 

All  the  noises  of  Nature  :  the  winds,  those  fearful 
blasts  from  an  unknown  mouth,  which  play  upon  the 
numberless  instruments  of  Nature,  whether  in  the  plains, 
on  the  mountains,  along  the  hollows  of  the  valleys,  or 
massed  in  the  orchestra  of  the  forest ;  the  waters,  whose 
scale  of  voices  ranges  over  so  infinite  a  compass,  from 
the  soft  rippling  of  a  fountain  over  the  moss  to  the  grand 
harmonies  of  the  ocean ;  the  thunder,  the  voice  of  that 
sea  which  heaves  over  our  heads ;  the  dry  leaves,  which 
rustle  to  a  passing  human  tread  or  that  of  a  playful  breeze  ; 

5* 


io6  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

in  short  (for  one  must  put  an  end  to  this  enumeration, 
which  might  be  infinite),  this  continual  utterance  of  sounds, 
this  ever-undulating  murmur  of  the  elements,  expand  my 
thoughts  into  strange  reveries,  and  throw  me  into  mazes 
whence  there  is  no  issue.  The  voice  of  Nature  has  ac- 
quired such  empire  over  me  that  I  rarely  succeed  in  free- 
ing myself  from  the  habitual  pre-occupation  which  she 
imposes,  and  attempt  in  vain  to  feign  deafness.  But  to 
wake  at  midnight,  with  the  shrieks  of  the  storm,  to  be  as- 
sailed in  the  darkness  by  a  savage  and  furious  harmony 
which  subverts  the  peaceful  sway  of  night,  is  something 
incomparable  in  the  experience  of  strange  impressions.  It 
is  a  terrible  delight. 

MoRDREUx,  jfanuary  2d,  1834. — Day  before  yester- 
day evening  I  was  finishing  a  letter  to  Frederic  thus  : 

"  I  am  writing  to  you  in  the  last  hours  of  1833. 
There  is  an  indescribably  solemn  sadness  in  this  death- 
struggle  of  the  year.  My  heart  is  full  of  strange  and 
mournful  thoughts,  for  the  tempest  roars  without,  and 
the  year  expires  in  the  convulsions  of  a  gloomy  and 
stormy  night." 

I  have  suffered  strangely  this  whole  evening.  The 
incredible  rapidity  of  life's  passage,  the  mystery  of  our 
destiny,  the  terrible  questions  which  doubt  at  times  ad- 
dresses to  men  the  most  settled  in  their  belief — in  short, 
this  state  which  for  me  returns  often  enough,  in  which 
the  soul,  like  Lenore,  feels  itself  transported  with  loosen- 
ed rein  to  I  know  not  what  dismal  regions, — all  this  has 
taken  hold  of  me.  The  same  evening,  I  received  con- 
firmation of  a  report  v/hich  had  been  circulated  for  some 
days  :  the  defeat  of  a  great  man,  who  has  surrendered  his 
pen  as  heroes  surrender  their  swords,  indignation  in  his 
heart  and  tears  in  his  eyes.     Poor  M.  Feli !  you  have 


JournaL  107 

often  pressed  me  to  your  bosom,  I  have  breathed  your 
spirit,  and  my  timid  and  undeserving  glance  has  penetra- 
ted to  the  bottom  of  your  heart  j  for  there  were  days 
when  you  became  so  transparent,  so  limpid,  that  one 
could  look  into  your  very  depths,  as  into  the  clearest 
fountain.  Oh  !  what  grief  seizes  me  when  I  see  you  so 
misunderstood,  and  suffering  so  much  evil  for  all  the  good 
you  fain  would  have  done  !  What  man  has  been  better 
able  to  say  to  the  Lord  :  "  The  zeal  of  Thy  house  hath 
eaten  me  up  "  ?  and  you  have  been  counted  among  those 
whom  Satan  sends  to  sow  dissensions  in  the  house  of 
the  Lord !  =* 


Le  Val,  January  20th. — I  passed  three  weeks  at 
Mordreux,  f  in  the  bosom  of  a  family  the  most  equable, 
the  most  united,  the  most  blessed  of  heaven  than  can  be 
imagined.  And  yet,  in  this  calm,  in  this  sweet  monotony 
of  domestic  life,  my  days  were  -inwardly  so  excited  that  I 
think  I  have  never  experienced  such  uneasiness  of  heart 
and  brain.  I  know  not  what  strange  tenderness  had 
taken  possession  of  my  whole  being,  and  drew  tears  from 
my  eyes  for  a  mere  nothing,  as  happens  to  little  children 
and  old  men.  My  heart  swelled  at  every  moment,  and 
my  soul  overflowed  in  secret  bursts,  in  effusions  of  tears 
and  internal  communings.  I  felt,  as  it  were,  a  soft 
languor  that  weighed  upon  my  eyes,  and  at  times  bound 
all  my  limbs.     I  ate  with  loathing,  although  urged   by 

*  The  end  of  the  page  is  effaced  in  the  original  manuscript,  and 
the  two  following  leaves  have  been  torn  out,  no  doubt  by  Guerin 
himself. 

t  At  the  house  of  M.  de  la  Villeon,  fathcr-in-lav>r  of  Hippolyte 
La  Morvonnais. 


io8  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

appetite  ;  for  I  was  pursuing  tlioughts  which  intoxicated 
me  with  such  sweetness,  and  the  happiness  of  my  soul 
communicated  to  my  body  an  ease  so  indescribably 
tender,  that  it  recoiled  from  any  act  which  would  blunt 
so  keen  a  pleasure.  I  forced  myself  to  resist  this  dan- 
gerous exaltation,  this  impetuous  feeling,  whose  peril  I 
realized  ;  but  I  was  too  much  in  its  power  to  escape,  and, 
judging  from  all  appearances,  it  was  all  over  with  me  if  I 
had  not  found  a  powerful  diversion  in  the  contemplation  \ 
of  Nature. 

I  set  about  studying  her  even  more  closely  than  had 
been  my  wont,  and  by  degrees  the  excitement  subsided  j 
for  there  issued  from  fields,  from  waves,  from  woods,  a 
mild  and  wholesome  virtue  which  penetrated  my  being, 
and  changed  all  my  transports  into  melancholy  dreams. 
This  blending  of  the  calm  suggestions  of  Nature  with  the 
stormy  ecstasies  of  the  heart  will  beget  a  state  of  mind 
which  I  would  fain  retain,  for  it  is  a  most  desirable  state 
for  a  restless  dreamer  like  myself  It  is  like  a  rapture  so 
subdued  and  tranquil  that  it  carries  the  soul  out  of  itself 
without  taking  from  it  the  consciousness  of  a  lingering 
and  somewhat  stormy  sadness.  Another  result  is  that  the 
soul  is  insensibly  steeped  in  a  languor  which  deadens  the 
keenness  of  every  intellectual  faculty,  and  lulls  it  into  a 
half-sleep  void  of  all  thought,  in  which,  nevertheless,  it  is 
conscious  of  the  faculty  of  dreaming  the  most  beautiful 
things.  At  other  times,  it  is  like  a  cloud  which  spreadsP 
its  soft  tints  over  the  soul,  and  casts  that  pleasant  shadow^ 
which  invites  to  meditation  and  repose.  The  unrest  also^J 
the  ardent  activities,  all  the  turbulent  crowd  which  bustles 
in  the  citadel  of  the  heart,  becomes  silent,  sometimes  be- 
takes itself  to  prayer,  and  always  ends  by  composing  itself 
to  slumber.     Nothing  can  more  faithfully  represent  this 


Journal,  109 

state  of  the  soul  than  the  evening  this  moment  falHng. 
Gray  clouds,  whose  edges  are  slightly  silvered,  are  spread 
uniformly  over  the  whole  face  of  the  sky.  The  sun,  which 
vanished  a  few  moments  ago,  has  left  behind  him  light 
enough  to  relieve  for  some  time  the  black  shadows,  and 
in  a  manner  to  tone  the  falling  darkness.  The  winds 
are  hushed,  and  the  tranquil  ocean  sends  up,  when  I  go 
out  on  the  threshold  to  listen,  only  a  melodious  murmur, 
which  breaks  on  the  soul  like  a  beautiful  wave  on  the 
beach.  The  birds,  the  first  to  be  won  by  the  influence  of 
night,  take  their  flight  towards  the  woods,  and  their  wings 
are  heard  rustling  in  the  clouds.  The  copse  which  covers 
the  whole  hill-side  of  Le  Val,  which  has  echoed  all  day 
with  the  warbling  of  the  wren,  with  the  cheerful  whistle 
of  the  woodpecker,  and  the  various  notes  of  a  multitude 
of  birds,  has  no  longer  any  sound  in  its  paths  and  thick- 
]  ets,  save  the  shrill  cry  of  the  blackbirds  chasing  each 
f  other  in  their  play,  after  all  other  birds  have  their  heads 
under  their  wings.  The  noise  of  man,  always  the  last  to 
be  hushed,  gradually  dies  away  along  the  fields.  The 
universal  hum  ceases,  and  one  hears  scarcely  a  sound 
except  what  comes  from  the  towns  and  hamlets,  where, 
far  into  the  night,  is  heard  the  crying  of  children  and  the 
barking  of  dogs.  Silence  enfolds  me  ;  everythmg  seeks 
jepose,  except  my  pen,  which  haply  disturbs  the  slumber 
of  some  living  atom  asleep  in  the  leaves  of  my  note-book, 
for  it  makes  its  own  little  noise  scratching  these  foolish 
thoughts.  Well !  let  it  cease,  then ;  for  what  I  write, 
have  written,  and  shall  write,  can  never  be  weighed 
against  the  sleep  of  an  atom. 

Ten  o'clock  in  the  evening.  A  last  walk,  a  last  visit 
to  the  sea,  to  the  coast,  to  all  this  magnificent  landscape 
which  has  enchanted  me  for  two  months.     Winter  smiles 


< 


( 


no  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

upon  us  with  all  the  charm  of  Spring,  and  gives  us  days 
which  make  the  birds  sing  and  hasten  the  leaf-budding 
of  the  rose-bushes  in  the  garden,  the  sweet-brier  in  the 
woods,  and  the  honeysuckle  climbing  along  the  walls  and 
rocks.  At  two  o'clock  we  took  the  path  which  winds  so 
gracefully  among  the  flowering  furze  and  coarse  grass  of 
the  cliffs,  runs  along  the  wheat-fields,  turns  towards  the 
ravines,  creeps  between  the  hedges,  and  rises  boldly 
towards  the  most  lofty  rocks.  The  end  of  the  walk  was 
a  promontory  which  overlooks  the  bay  of  Quatre-Vaux. 
The  sea  shone  in  all  its  brilliancy,  and  broke  a  hundred 
feet  below  us  with  a  sound  which  swept  over  our  souls 
as"  if  rose  to  the  heavens.  ^  Towards  the  horizon,  the 
fishermen's  boats  unfolded  their  sails  of  a  dazzling  white- 
ness against  the  azure,  and  we  glanced  alternately  from 
this  little  fleet  to  another  more  numerous,  which,  to  the 
sound  of  singing,  was  rocking  nearer  to  us.  This  was  an 
innumerable  crowd  of  sea-birds  gayly  catching  their  fish, 
and  rejoicing  our  sight  with  their  shining  plumage  and 
their  graceful  poise  upon  the  waves.  These  birds,  these 
sails,  the  beauty  of  the  day,  the  universal  serenity,  gave 
a  holiday  air  to  the  ocean  and  filled  my  soul  with  a  joy- 
ful enthusiasm,  in  spite  of  the  background  of  sad 
thoughts  which  I  had  brougiit  to  our  promontory.  How- 
ever, I  abandoned  myself  with  all  my  power  of  vision  to 
the  contemplation  of  capes,  rocks,  islands,  forcing  myself 
to  take  from  them,  as  it  were,  an  impression,  and  to  trans- 
fer it  to  my  soul.  Returning,  with  regret  at  each  step,  I 
trod  with  sacred  emotion  that  path  which  has  so  often 
led  me  in  such  delightful  companionship  to  such  beauti- 
ful meditations.  This  path  is  so  full  of  charms  when  it 
comes  to  the  copse  and  runs  between  the  overhanging 
hazels  and    a   hedge  of  scraggy  boxwood  !     There  the 


^ 


Journal.  1 1 1 

joy  which  I  had  caught  from  Nature  vanished,  and  I  was 
seized  with  the  sadness  of  parting.  To-morrow  will  make 
of  Jhis  sea,  of  these  coasts,  of  these  woods,  of  the  many" 
delights  that  I  have  enjoyed,  a  dream,  a  floating  thought 
that  will  be  merged  in  other  thoughts.  And  in  order  to 
talce  with  me  as  much  as  possible  of  the  spirit  of  these 
sweeFfegiohs,  and  as  if  it  had  been  in  their  power  to  give 
themselves  to  me,  I  inwardly  supplicated  them  to  imprint 
themselves  upon  my  soul,  to  infuse  into  me  something 
'  of  themselves  which  should  never  pass  away/  At  the 
Vsame  time  I  put  aside  the  branches  of  the  box,  of  the 
jbuslies,  of  the  tangled  thickets,  and  I  thrust  my  head 
\  iii!o~tEeir  midst,  to  breathe  the  wild  perfumes  lurking 
/  there,  to  penetrate  to  their  inmost  being,  and,  as  it  were, 
I    talk  heart  to  heart  with  them. 

V.^l'irThe  evening  passed  as  usual  in  conversation  and 
reading.  We  retraced  the  happiness  of  tlie  past  days. 
I  have  drawn  a  faint  picture  of  it  in  this  note-book.  We 
gazed  upon  it  pensively,  as  on  the  picture  of  the  loveliest, 
the  most  cherished  dead. 

Hippolyte  has  gone  to  bed.  I  write  this  in  the 
solitude  and  silence  of  night,  by  the  side  of  an  extinguish- 
ed fire.  I  have  been  listening  at  the  door  to  the  sounds 
from  without.  They  are  few  :  the  ocean  has  retired  into 
the  distance,  he  is  calm,  he  sleeps,  we  hear  him  not. 
The  Arguenon  with  broad  windings  flows  along  the 
strand,  the  moon  paces  up  and  down  its  current,  and 
its  shallows,  where  the  water  is  ruffled,  send  up  to  us  a 
gentle  murmur.  The  breeze  scarcely  sighs  in  the  wood, 
and  all  else  is  stfll. 

Adieu,  adieu,  beloved  abode  !  If  thou  lovest  me  and 
doubtest  my  constancy,  hearken  to  this  which  shall  re- 


112  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

assure  thee  :  in  losing  solitude  I  lose  the  half  of  my  soul. 
I  go  out  into  the  world  with  a  secret  horror, 

Caen,  jfanuary  2\th. — I  have  just  been  exploring 
some  of  the  streets  of  this  city  by  the  faint  light  of  the 
street  lamps.  What  have  I  seen  ?  The  black  phantoms 
of  churches  and  their  belfries,  whose  bulk  alone  I  could 
distinguish  \  but  the  mystery  of  night,  which  enfolds  them 
and  defines  not  their  dimensions  as  would  the  broad 
light  of  day,  adds  to  their  sacredness,  and  has  touched 
me  with  a  sentiment  which  is  better,  I  believe,  than  that 
which  springs  from  forms.  My  thought  soared  indefi- 
nitely towards  heaven  with  those  spires,  which  seem  to 
have  no  end,  and  roved  in  terror  all  round  those  gloomy 
naves,  as  around  tombs.  That  was  all.  The  streets 
were  crowded ;  but  what  is  a  crowd  in  the  night,  or  even 
in  the  day  ?  In  the  night  I  prefer  the  noise  of  the  winds, 
and,  during  the  day,  those  great  assemblages  now  silent, 
now  roaring,  which  are  called  forests.  Moreover,  I  met 
some  of  those  men  who  always  prompt  me  to  hasten 
home  as  soon  as  possible,  students  so-called,  who  passed 
in  jaunty  attire,  and  wore  on  every  feature  an  indescrib- 
able expression,  which  intimidates  and  puts  me  to  con- 
fusion. O  my  note-book  !  my  sweet  friend,  how  I  felt 
that  I  loved  thee  in  escaping  from  this  multitude.  Be- 
hold now  I  am  thine,  although  the  night  is  far  spent,  and 
I  am  all  sore  with  fatigue  j  wholly  thine,  while  I  tell  thee 
my  troubles  and  talk  to  thee  peacefully  in  secret.  Can  I 
ever  sufficiently  live  over  memories  still  steeped  in  tears, 
and  which  will  remain  forever  incorruptible  in  my  soul  ? 
That  good  Hippolyte  and  his  adorable  Marie  !  I  had 
said  farewell  to  her ;  she  had  answered  in  words  of  the 
most  touching  kindness  \  I  had  faltered  out  a  few  more 
words  and  was  hastily  descending  the  staircase,  thinking 


Journal.  113 

that  she  had  not  crossed  the  threshold  and  that  all  was 
over,  when  I  heard  a  new  farewell  to  me  from  above.  I 
raised  my  head  and  saw  her  leaning  over  the  baluster. 
I  answered  feebly,  very  feebly,  for  her  voice  had  deprived 
me  of  the  little  strength  I  had  to  restrain  my  tears. 


Paris,  February  1st. — My  God  !  close  my  eyes  ;  pre- 
serve me  from  seeing  all  this  multitude,  the  sight  of  whom 
gives  rise  in  me  to  thoughts  so  bitter,  so  discouraging. 
Grant  that,  in  passing  through  it,  I  may  be  deaf  to  noise, 
inaccessible  to  those  impressions  which  overwhelm  me 
when  traversing  the  crowd ;  and,  to  that  end,  place  before 
mine  eyes  an  image,  a  vision  of  things  that  I  love,  a  field, 
a  vale,  a  moor,  Le  Cayla,  Le  Val — some  natural  object. 
I  will  walk  with  looks  fixed  upon  those  sweet  forms,  and 
thus  shall  pass  and  feel  no  rude  jostling. 

17//^. — O  purity  of  the  fields!  I  was  constantly  as- 
cending from  Nature  to  God,  and  descending  from  God 
to  Nature.  That  was  my  inner  life,  mingled  with  some 
melancholy,  some  heart-flutterings  which,  nevertheless, 
only  softened  or  quickened  the  current  of  my  thoughts 
without  changing  them.  Nothing  impure  entered  my 
soul,  and  I  felt  the  powers  of  my  mind  growing;  for 
when  the  inward  man  is  pure,  his  thought  rises  un- 
fettered, ever  approaching  the  source  of  all  intellectual 
strength.  I  was  beginning  to  rise  above  my  discourage- 
ments, and  to  acquire  that  beautiful  and  noble  trust  of 
a  heart  which  feels  itself  at  one  with  God,  and  which  can- 
not be  cast  down  so  long  as  it  rests  in  this  faith. 

March  16th. — I  am  passing  through  a  strange  expe- 
rience. Perhaps  I  have  never  had  stronger  proof  of  my 
intellectual  impotence  than  in  these  last  weeks,  and  I 


1 14  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

pursue  my  course  as  if  nothing  were  the  matter ;  I  am 
bravely  writing  numerous  articles  which  are  accepted — 
by  what  miracle  I  know  not — by  a  little  daily  paper.  In 
truth,  I  know  not  which  most  to  admire,  the  excessive 
kindness  of  the  men  who  welcome  such  poor  essays,  or 
my  incredible  assurance  in  launching  such  nonsense  into 
the  world.  Whence  comes,  then,  this  extraordinary 
courage  ?  Oh  !  I  can  acknowledge  to  myself  the  feeling 
which  inspires  me ;  it  is  pure,  it  is  praiseworthy,  and  it 
so  rarely  happens  that  I  can  look  one  of  my  thoughts  in 
the  face  without  lowering  my  eyes,  that  I  must  here 
record  that  which  gives  me  an  energy  so  unwonted.  I 
work  solely  for  my  father  and  my  friends,  all  my  strength 
is  in  them,  and  it  is  not  I  who  work,  but  they  who  work 
in  me.  It  is  tme  that  during  three  years  they  have 
urged  and  spurred  me  in  vain,  and  that  in  this  was 
cause  for  dying  of  shame  and  remorse,  if  my  soul  could 
nurse  a  sentiment — that  of  repentance,  for  example — up 
to  some  degree  of  energy. 

22,d. — Oh !  let  me  hasten  to  retain  here  as  much  as 
possible  of  the  raptures  of  this  day;  let  me  hasten  to 
write  that  this  day  I  have  enjoyed  a  sublime  happiness, 
that  of  a  man  who  has  glimpses  of  the  delights  of  heaven, 
that  I  have  felt  powerful  for  good,  and  full  of  love  for 
God  and  men.  Yes,  I  must  hasten  to  write  it,  for  these 
noble  exaltations  last  but  a  short  time  in  my  soul,  for 
to-morrow * 


It  seems  to  me  intolerable  to  appear  before  men 
other  than  I  appear  before  God.     My  severest  torment 

*  Here  there  is  a  blank  in  the  manuscript ;  a  leaf  is  wanting. 


Journal.  115 

at  this  moment,  is  the  opinion  which  superior  people 
entertain  of  me.  It  is  said  that  at  the  last  judgment, 
the  secrets  of  the  conscience  shall  be  revealed  to  the 
whole  universe  :  I  would  it  might  be  thus  with  me  from 
this  day,  and  that  the  sight  of  my  soul  might  be  exposed 
to  all  comers. 

April  20th. — O  my  note-book,  thou  art  not  for  me  a 
heap  of  paper,  something  insensible,  inanimate ;  no, 
thou  livest,  thou  hast  a  soul,  an  understanding,  love, 
kindness,  compassion,  patience,  charity,  sympathy,  pure 
and  unchangeable.  Thou  art  for  me  what  I  have  not 
found  among  men,  that  tender  and  devoted  being  who 
attaches  himself  to  a  feeble  and  sickly  soul,  who  enfolds 
it  in  affection,  who  alone  comprehends  its  language, 
divines  the  thoughts  of  its  heart,  sympathizes  with  its 
sorrows,  partakes  of  the  intoxication  of  its  joys,  lets  it 
rest  upon  his  bosom,  or,  in  his  turn,  leans  upon  it  for 
rest ;  for  we  bestow  upon  one  we  love  the  greatest  con- 
solation when  we  take  sleep,  or  repose,  leaning  upon 
his  breast.     I  need  a  love  like  that,  a  pitying  love. 

There  is  nothing  in  me  which  can  excite  the  love 
that  we  see  so  much  of  in  the  world,  the  love  of  equal 
for  equal,  the  love  that  exists  between  congenial  souls — 
souls  which  attract  each  other,  because  they  have  mu- 
tually recognized  each  other  as  great  and  beautiful,  like 
two  stars  descrying  each  other  from  opposite  poles,  and 
moving  to  a  conjunction  across  the  spaces  of  heaven.  To 
be  loved  as  I  am,  I  must  meet  a  soul  willing  to  incline 
towards  its  inferior ;  a  strong  soul  that  would  bend  the 
knee  before  the  feebler,  not  to  worship  it,  but  to  serve, 
to  console  it,  to  protect  it  as  one  would  a  sick  man ;  a 
soul,  in  short,  gifted  with  a  sensibility  as  humble  as  pro- 
found, which  would  divest  itself  of  pride,  so  natural  even 


1 1 6  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

to  love,  to  bury  its  heart  in  an  obscure  affection,  which 
the  world  would  in  no  wise  comprehend ;  to  consecrate 
its  life  to  some  weak  being,  morbid  and  introspective ; 
to  be  content  to  concentrate  all  its  rays  upon  a  flower 
without  brilliancy,  weak  and  always  trembling;  which 
would  bestow,  indeed,  perfumes  whose  sweetness  charms 
and  penetrates,  but  never  those  which  intoxicate  and 
exalt  to  the  happy  delirium  of  rapture. 

May  ist. — Always  a  burden,  always  forced  to  borrow 
my  existence.  The  lips  of  the  newly-born  infant  have 
energy  enough  to  take  the  breast,  and  I,  in  the  prime 
of  my  youth,  have  not  sufficient  vigor  to  draw  my  nour- 
ishment, to  imbibe  a  little  life. 

ph. — A  soft  rain.  There  was  not  a  breath  in  the 
air.  The  rain  was  falling  quietly,  with  a  monotony  which 
was  not  without  its  charm.  The  foliage  bent  under  the 
water  of  heaven,  and  each  drop,  as  it  struck  the  leaves, 
imparted  to  them  a  little  vibration  which  ceased  only  to 
be  renewed.  It  was  as  if  a  universal  thrill  had  seized 
the  tufts  of  verdure,  a  tremor  of  delight  and  joy.  The 
air,  saturated  with  a  warm  moisture,  and  laden  with  all 
the  perfumes  of  May,  induced  languor,  and  surfeited  by 
mere  excess  of  softness  and  warm  odors. 

At  present,  all  my  interviews  with  Nature,  that 
second  Consoler  of  the  sorrowful,  take  place  in  a  little 
garden  in  the  street  Anjou-Saint-Honore,  close  by  Pe- 
pinibre  street.  Day  before  yesterday,  in  the  evening,  I 
had  passed  my  arm  round  the  trunk  of  a  lilac,  and  was 
singing  softly  J.  J.'s  song :  Que  le  joicr  me  dure.  This 
touching,  melancholy  air,  my  posture,  the  calm  of  even- 
ing, and,  more  than  all,  this  habit  that  belongs  to  my 
soul  of  taking  up  at  evening  all  its  sadness,  of  surround- 
ing itself  with  pale  clouds  towards  the  end  of  the  day, 


Journal,  w-j 

threw  me  back  upon  the  deep,  vast  consciousness  of  my 
misery,  of  my  inner  poverty.  I  saw  myself  miserable, 
very  miserable,  pitiable,  and  utterly  incapable  of  a 
future.  At  the  same  time,  I  seemed  to  hear  murmuring, 
far  and  high  above  my  head,  that  world  of  thought  and 
poetry  towards  which  I  so  often  spring  without  the 
power  ever  to  attain  to  it.  I  thought  of  those  of  my 
age  who  have  sufficient  breadth  of  wing  to  reach  it,  but 
without  jealousy,  and  as  we  here  below  look  upon  the 
elect  and  their  bliss.  Still  my  soul  burned,  panted, 
struggled  against  its  weakness.  There  was  in  it  some- 
thing of  the  despair,  and  the  fruitless,  passionate  efforts 
of  those  unfortunates  who  can  only  dream  of  love,  and, 
in  their  dreams,  wildly  press  to  their  bosom  a  phantom 
that  scorches.  The  trunk  of  the  lilac  I  was  straining 
shook  under  my  arm ;  I  seemed  to  feel  it  move  spon- 
taneously, and  all  its  shuddering  leaves  uttered  a  soft 
sound,  which  seemed  to  me  like  a  language,  like  a  murmur 
of  lips  which  whisper  words  of  consolation.  O  my  lilac, 
at  that  moment,  I  was  pressing  thee  as  the  sole  being  in 
this  world  against  whom  I  could  lean  my  faltering  na- 
ture, the  only  one  capable  of  supporting  my  embraces, 
and  compassionate  enough  to  offer  a  support  to  my 
misery !  How  have  I  repaid  thee  ?  With  a  few  tears 
that  fell  upon  thy  roots  ! 

\Wi. — My  inward  misery  increases,  I  dare  no  longer 
look  within  myself 

2^th. — I  shall  be  blamed,  undoubtedly;  but  is  it  in 
my  power  to  express  anything  except  what  I  feel  ?  Ex- 
periences accumulate  ;  there  is  no  longer  room  for  doubt. 
I  have  no  refuge  but  in  resignation.  I  well  foresaw,  when 
I  put  my  foot  upon  the  first  step  of  my  attempts  and 
efforts,  that  I  should  esteem  myself  happy  to  meet,  after 


1 1 8  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

having  had  recourse  to  everything,  not  a  foothold  of 
moderate  extent,  where  I  could  establish  my  life  and 
breathe  at  ease,  but  even  a  little  hole  to  cower  in  and 
keep  myself  hidden  until  the  end.  My  expectation  has 
been  realized  to  the  letter :  I  have  no  shelter  but  resig- 
nation, and  I  run  to  it  in  great  haste,  all  trembling  and 
distracted.  Resignation  !  it  is  the  burrow  hollowed  be- 
neath the  roots  of  an  old  oak,  or  in  the  cleft  of  some 
rock,  which  gives  shelter  to  the  flying  and  long-hunted 
prey.  Swiftly  it  slinks  into  the  dark  and  narrow  open- 
ing, crouches  in  the  farthest  corner,  and  there,  all  bent 
and  gathered  into  itself,  its  heart  throbbing  with  rapid 
beats,  it  hears  the  far-off  baying  of  the  pack,  and  the 
cries  of  the  hunters.  Here  I  am  in  my  burrow.  But, 
the  danger  past,  the  hunted  thing  returns  to  the  fields, 
comes  forth  again  to  see  the  sun  and  liberty;  it  goes 
back  joyously  to  its  carpet  of  wild  thyme  and  of  savory 
herbs,  which  it  had  left  half-cropped ;  it  resumes  the 
habits  of  its  wild  and  wandering  life.  Grains,  vines, 
copses,  shrubberies,  flowers,  its  bed  in  the  tufted  grass, 
or  in  the  moss  under  a  thicket,  its  naps,  its  dreams,  its 
vague  and  sweet  existence — all  is  again  its  own ;  and  I, 
so  long  in  terror,  will  go  forth  no  more ;  I  will  remain 
forever  burrowing  in  my  subterranean  dwelling.  Need 
I  complain  of  this  ?  Why  should  I  ?  In  the  depths  of 
my  hiding-place  I  find  safety,  an  assured  calm,  and  as 
much  room  as  my  soul  needs  for  its  little  evolutions.  A 
soft  and  subtle  ray  glides  in  to  me,  and  sheds  about  as 
much  light  as  illumines  the  cell  of  a  bee.  Provided  only 
the  wind  brings  me  from  time  to  time  a  few  whiffs  of 
wild  perfumes,  and  my  ear  catches  some  distant  notes 
of  the  melodies  of  Nature,  what  have  I  to  regret  ?  Does 
the  spider,  swinging  at  evening  on  its  thread  between 


Journal.  119 

two  leaves,  trouble  itself  about  the  flight  of  the  eagle, 
and  the  wings  of  all  the  birds  ?  And  is  the  imagination 
of  the  bird  brooding  her  young,  well  sheltered  in  a  thicket, 
troubled  with  regret  for  the  sports  of  her  liberty,  and  the 
gentle  undulations  of  her  flight  high  in  air  ?  I  have 
never  had  the  liberty  of  the  bird,  nor  has  my  thought 
been  as  joyous  as  her  wings  :  let  me  rest  in  resignation, 
as  the  bird  in  her  nest. 

2(ith. — Why  vex  myself  by  incessantly  asking,  What 
shall  I  make  of  my  life?  I  have  applied  it  to  many 
things,  and  it  has  taken  hold  of  none  ;  with  an  apparent 
fitness  for  work,  I  remain  in  a  useless  and  passive  atti- 
tude, almost  without  resource.  But  who  knows  if,  all 
superfluous  as  I  seem  in  society,  God  does  not  derive 
from  me  some  good  I  know  not  of — if  He  has  not,  with- 
out my  knowledge,  endowed  me  with  some  virtue,  some 
secret  influence  over  the  welfare  of  men  ?  Every  time 
that  I  am  haunted  by  this  fatal  thought  of  my  useless- 
ness  and  my  weakness,  I  will  take  refuge  in  this :  that 
Providence  finds  some  good  in  me,  and  makes  me  serve 
some  hidden  use,  only  exacting  from  me  my  consent, 
and  a  faith  in  this  mission  which  He  has  not  chosen  to 
reveal  to  me.  By  this  acquiescence  of  my  will,  the  im- 
perceptible good  that  I  do  is  quickened  ;  I  thereby  sow 
the  seeds  of  merit,  which  will  germinate  in  secret,  and 
will  bloom  in  heavenly  rewards  in  the  fields  of  a  better 
world.  The  paths  which  conduct  mortals  to  heaven  are 
diverse  ;  some  seem  to  be  widely  divergent,  and,  never- 
theless, meet  in  a  common  centre  ;  each  has  its  windings, 
its  crooks,  its  mysterious  labyrinths.  Amid  all  the  roads 
which  men  follow,  there  is,  perhaps,  a  greater  number 
than  is  generally  believed  that  open  into  heaven,  but  I 
am   satisfied   that   all   are   difficult.      However   it   may 


I20  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

be,  I  advance,  with  full  confidence,  in  my  own  path, 
which  is  very  dark.  This  constant  thought,  that  I  am 
ignorant  of  the  good  work  for  which  the  Lord  designs 
me,  will  lead  me  to  respect  all  creatures,  to  bow  before 
all  living  things,  to  conduct  myself  on  the  earth  as  in  a 
temple,  where  all  things  fulfil  a  sacred  ministry,  where 
the  atoms  of  dust  in  the  chinks  of  the  pavement  are  so 
many  priests,  whose  innumerable  legions  prostrate  them- 
selves in  prayer. 

yune  loth. — When  I  enter  upon  a  subject,  my  self- 
love  imagines  that  I  am  doing  wonders,  and  when  I  have 
finished  it,  I  perceive  that  it  is  a  servile  imitation  only, 
made  up  of  odds  and  ends  of  color  ground  on  the  jDallet 
of  the  masters,  and  coarsely  mixed  on  mine.  But  why 
torment  myself  incessantly  with  this  thought  ?  I  do  my 
best ;  I  go  as  far  as  I  can,  and  care  not  a  whit  for  what 
the  world  may  say.  This  philosophy  is  of  recent  date. 
In  the  last  eight  days,  I  have  made  great  progress  in 
self-denial,  resignation,  and  the  mortifying  of  every  self- 
complacent  thought.  I  have  gone  back  into  my  little 
shell,  and  am  striving  to  make  the  best  of  my  quarters, 
with  the  resolution  of  leaving  it  no  more.  I  ridicule  my 
imagination,  which,  like  the  tortoise,  would  fain  make 
excursions  in  the  air ;  I  insult  with  impunity  my  aspira- 
tions, which,  timid  as  they  are,  are  bursting  with  spite ; 
I  delight  in  taunting  the  magnificent  7ne,  which  vainly 
rebels  against  the  spur  of  this  inward  sarcasm  ;  like  the 
scorpion  in  the  furnace,  I  bite  myself,  in  order  that  I 
may  sooner  die. 

iTfth. — And  am  I  not  a  laughing-stock,  a  toy,  some- 
thing that  little  children  follow  with  their  mockery,  a 
being  whom  the  weakest  confront,  whom  the  ten-year-old 
boy  crushes  with  his  foot,  like  the  worm  trodden  under 


Journal,  i2i 

the  wheel,  before  I  can  even  turn  ?  All  the  children  I 
meet  seem  instinctively  to  divine  the  imbecility  of  my 
character,  and  treat  me  at  once  as  the  master  his  slave. 
Their  first  thought,  as  soon  as  they  see  me,  is  to  make 
sport  of  me ;  to  tease  me  with  the  innocent  malice  pecu- 
liar to  their  age.  I  do  not  resent  it :  it  is  natural  to 
them  to  use  for  their  amusement  anything  weaker  than 
their  weak  hands. 

The  Park  {Eure  et  Loir),  jFune  25///. — How  express 
what  I  have  experienced  in  again  plunging  into  solitude, 
a  solitude  that  recalls  the  country  of  my  sweetest  dreams 
— Brittany?  For  the  country  where  I  now  am  slopes 
towards  the  west,  and  one  breathes  here  an  air  which 
might  be  an  emanation  from  my  good  country.  The 
fields  wear  nearly  the  same  look ;  here  are  the  sunken 
roads,  overgrown  with  grass  ;  the  paths  along  the  wheat 
fields  ;  the  rustic  fences,  the  patches  of  furze,  broom,  and 
stunted  oak  :  they  make  excellent  butter  here,  and  cider 
flows  abundantly.  I  enjoy  this  resemblance,  I  devote 
myself  to  the  study  of  it,  I  call  up  a  thousand  charming 
memories,  which,  to  my  taste,  is  one  of  the  sweetest  pas- 
times of  the  soul.  However,  my  restless  thought  slum- 
bers not ;  it  goads  me  and  keeps  me  always  panting,  but 
its  stings  are  less  poignant,  and  less  tormenting.  Re- 
lieved from  a  burden  of  material  cares,  which  were  stifling 
me,  my  fancies  soar  more  freely  ;  but  what  matter  ?  There 
are  always  cares,  doubts,  perplexities  ;  only  I  will  look 
higher  for  them,  and  under  a  more  vague  and  less  material 
form.  They  are  chimeras  of  the  future,  which  appear 
and  disappear,  searchings  into  my  destiny,  brilliant  hopes 
and  failures,  a  chain  of  all  the  strange  thoughts  which 
can  be  conceived  in  a  brain  little  fertile,  but  always 
active,  in  an  imagination  which  believes,  and  believes 
6 


122  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

not  in  itself,  which  lashes  and  caresses  itself,  which  wel- 
comes all  dreams,  all  impressions,  without  resting  in  any, 
and  is  ever  in  quest  of  something  new.  When  then 
shall  I  subdue  it  and  come  down  to  reason,  pure  and 
simple?  If  I  could  yield  to  the  wise  counsels  which 
come  to  me  from  all  sides,  I  would  stow  away  all  this 
rubbish  of  foolish  thoughts,  and  though  divested  of  my 
dreams,  I  would  tranquilly  follow  in  the  track  of  other 
men. 

26th. — The  sweetest  hospitality,  a  communion  with 
Nature,  to  whom  I  so  freely  resort,  the  absence  of  all  re- 
straint, all  thraldom ;  the  realization  of  that  happiness, 
half  savage,  half  social,  of  which  I  used  to  dream  so 
ardently  in  Paris,  in  my  dark,  pent-up  chamber, — I  pos- 
sess all  these  blessings,  and  I  cannot  wholly  abandon  my- 
self to  the  enjoyment  of  them.  Once  here,  I  fancied  I 
should  fall  into  the  half-sleep  of  a  uniform,  free,  and  natural 
life  ;  but  how  little  I  know  myself,  if  I  hope  to  taste  any- 
where full  repose,  and  to  be  lulled  by  the  sweet  sound  of 
the  harmony  that  one  hears  within  him  when  all  parts  of 
the  soul  are  in  accord  !  My  faculties,  intellectual  as  well 
as  moral,  are  too  ill-balanced  ever  to  attain  to  an  equi- 
librium ;  I  am  here  sheltered  from  every  external  shock. 
Freed  from  the  tumult  of  society,  beyond  the  reach  of 
those  blows  which,  v/hen  I  live  in  the  turmoil  of  the 
world,  wound  me,  irritate  me,  or  overwhelm  me  wholly, 
good  order  would  resume  its  sway  within  me  if  my  trouble 
came  altogether  from  the  side  of  society.  Society  has 
much  to  do  with  it — I  know  it  by  the  great  feeling  of  relief 
that  I  experience  whenever  I  withdraw  from  it ;  but  the 
nature  of  my  soul  also  has  a  large  share  in  it,  as  solitude 
proves  to  me  as  soon  as  I  return  to  it.  Then  certain 
uneasy,  restless  powers  awake  and  excite,  for  my  torment. 


Journal  i 23 

the  faculty  of  bitter  suffering — the  rancor,  the  intense  spite, 
the  insensate  wrath,  which  abates  and  is  soothed  under 
the  powerful  charm  of  the  country.  The  grateful  sensations 
which  flock  about  me  in  solitude,  the  animating  and 
absorbing  influences  of  Nature,  flatter  me  and  caress  the 
surface  of  my  soul ;  but  in  penetrating  to  the  interior, 
they  become  irritants,  which  increase  the  power  of  this 
dreamy  and  restless  faculty. 

"  They  are  also  to  the  weary  and  aching  soul,  what  the 
morning  dew  is  to  the  flowers  half  withered  by  the  heats 
of  the  preceding  day  :  it  revives  and  refreshes  them,  but 
often  only  to  deliver  them,  yet  more  sensitive,  to  the 
ardors  of  the  mid-day  sun."     O.  L.  V. 

jfuly  16th. — I  begin  to  observe  within  myself  some- 
thing which  somewhat  softens  my  private  misery,  and 
which  will  end,  perhaps,  in  raising  me  in  my  own  eyes. 
It  is  the  progress  of  my  soul  in  the  love  and  knowledge 
of  liberty.  It  was  in  183 1  that  my  heart  first  leaped  at 
that  name.  Until  that  period  the  weak  and  sluggish 
temper  of  my  soul  had  left  me  in  insensibility  and  igno- 
rance of  the  delights  of  liberty.  My  soul  at  length  came  to 
manhood,  and  the  first  enthusiasm  of  this  living  and 
powerful  faculty  bowed  before  the  virgin  form  of  liberty. 
At  twenty-one,  she  moved  my  soul  as  at  fourteen  a  young 
girl  might  have  disturbed  my  heart,  with  sensations 
wholly  new,  confused,  and  deliciously  troubled.  I  passed 
two  years  and  a  half  taken  up  with  the  timid  and  vague 
reveries  of  a  first  love,  which  knov/s  not  itself  and  requires 
little  nourishment.  But  for  some  months  I  have  ex- 
perienced violent  agitations  of  soul,  and  from  time  to 
time  I  feel  flashes  of  a  powerful  and  intoxicating  heat 
pervading  my  bosom.  Careless  and  wavering  dreams 
assume  consistency  and  take  shape  in  action  ;  insensibly 


124  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

they  are  transformed  into  strong,  full  thoughts.  What 
were  formerly  floating  and  luke-warm  desires  are  now 
ardent  thirsts.     Instinct  has  become  passion. 

I  have  arrived  at  a  critical  period  in  my  inner  life. 
By  a  strange  stirring  of  my  thoughts,  by  the  almost  in- 
stantaneous growth  of  more  than  one  faculty  within  me, 
by  the  quickened  motion  of  my  inner  life,  I  recognize  the 
approach  of  a  revulsion  I  have  long  invoked.  Hitherto  I 
have  given  up  to  my  caprice  and  to  chance  the  guidance  of 
my  faculties  ;  they  seemed  so  weak  and  promised  so  little 
that  I  did  not  judge  them  worthy  of  other  masters  ;  but 
they  have  agreeably  deceived  me.  These  pale,  wretched 
children  have  taken  on  vigor  and  bloom  ;  uncertain  and 
shrinking  in  constitution,  they  have  grown  bold,  and  have 
freed  themselves  by  a  quick  and  sudden  spring  from  the 
languors  of  their  long  infancy.  I  must  begin  to  think  of 
their  destiny.  An  internal  revolution  is  necessary  :  I  must 
enter  on  an  active  life,  and  say  farewell  to  my  beloved 
listlessness,  sweet  companion  of  my  childhood  and 
youth.  Alas  !  it  will  not  be  without  tears.  At  last  I 
must  seriously  exercise  my  faculties,  and  it  shall  be  under 
the  inspiration  and  the  fire  of  the  thought  that  fills  my 
soul,  burning  like  a  passion — the  thought  of  liberty  :  that 
is  to  say,  of  the  greatest  happiness  and  the  greatest 
progress  of  humanity.  I  shall  only  be  an  ant  bringing 
a  straw  to  the  building  up  of  the  future  ;  but  however  small 
my  forces,  they  will  none  the  less  be  animated  by  a  great 
and  holy  thought,  which  never  allows  the  soul  it  dwells 
in  to  falter,  which  purifies,  enlarges  it,  and  suffices  for 
its  happiness,  a  thought  which  belongs  to  all  and  of 
which  every  one  is  proud  ;  the  thought  which  drives  the 
age  before  it :  the  most  beautiful  after  that  of  God,  the 
thought  of  liberty. 


JournaL  125 

When  I  go  out  to  walk  in  a  pleasant  mood  and  free 
from  all  care,  I  feel  dawning  in  the  depth  of  my  soul  an 
unwonted,  a  singularly  lively  joy.  The  farther  I  go  into 
the  country,  it  rises  and  diffuses  itself,  now  rapidly,  now 
slowly,  according  to  the  incidents  by  the  way  and  the 
time  it  takes  to  reach  the  finest  part  of  the  walk.  Once 
there  and  established  to  my  liking,  and  always  in  a  way 
to  receive  most  vividly  on  all  sides  impressions  from  the 
surrounding  horizon,  this  growing  feeling  of  indefinable 
delight  attains  its  fulness,  diffuses  itself  through  my  being, 
and  fills  it  to  overflowing. 

August  4th. — Paris  is  about  to  take  possession  of  me 
once  more,  but  it  will  find  me  stronger,  more  courageous, 
in  better  condition  in  every  way,  to  support  the  pressure 
of  life.  During  the  six  weeks  spent  here  without  study, 
without  exertion,  letting  my  soul  wander  at  will,  living  in 
idleness,  but  in  a  contemplative  idleness  open  to  all  im- 
pressions, I  have  made  great  progress.  What  does  my 
intellect  need  to  enrich  and  enlarge  it.  Books  ?  persistent 
labor  ?  profound  researches  in  science  ?  No.  A  free  life, 
a  country  which  wraps  me  in  verdure  and  warm  emana- 
tions, through  which  I  walk  now  impetuous  and  hurried, 
now  quiet  and  loitering,  and  all  the  light,  the  clouds,  the 
ravishing  sounds  and  the  universal  rapture  which  revolve 
around  a  man  who  spends  whole  days  leaning  against  a 
tree  and  occupied  solely  with  observing  the  life  of 
Nature.  Under  these  conditions,  my  mind  has  been 
placed,  and  the  very»sap  of  its  being,  warmed  by  the 
potent  atmosphere  which  surrounded  it,  has  gushed  forth 
in  a  mighty  stream.  I  have  seen  many  clouds  detach 
themselves  from  the  mass  of  darkness  which  weighs  upon 
my  soul,  and  which  has  only  lately  been  stirred  by  the 
breath  of  my  new-Born  intelligence.     Every  day  I  throw 


126  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

off  some  prejudice.  The  love  of  liberty  is  taking 
possession  of  my  character  and  is  beginning  to  lay  in  it 
the  foundation  of  a  solid  and  rational  independence, 
^hich  confirms  me  in  myself,  and  prepares  for  me  powers 
of  resistance  against  the  rude  shocks  of  that  combat  so 
ingeniously  arranged  and  planned, — called  society.  I 
will  plunge  into  the  melee ;  I  know  not  against  whom  I 
shall  jostle  ;  but  I  am  well  assured  that  bruises  and 
wounds  will  rain  upon  me.  What  matter  ?  I  am  discon- 
certed by  a  mere  nothing,  a  breath  upsets  me,  a  child 
tyrannizes  over  my  timidity ;  what  then  will  happen  when 
my  life  is  bound  up  with  that  of  men  all  bristling  with 
prejudices,  proud  and  absolute  in  their  servile,  narrow, 
inflated  opinions,  their  hands  always  ready  to  strangle 
the  weak  ?  The  result  will  be  that  they  will  disturb  my 
timid  nature,  that  they  will  make  me  suffer  horribly  in 
the  weak  and  unfortified  regions  of  my  soul ;  but  their 
darts  will  not  pierce  elsev/here.  While  from  appearances 
'they  reckon  me  vanquished,  my  soul,  in  its  inner  temple  of 
independence,  will  lovingly  press  to  its  bosom  its  free 
and  generous  opinions,  its  faith,  emancipated  from  all  the 
petty  chains  with  which  it  is  loaded  by  many  a  man,  who 
says  to  me  :  "  Leave  there  those  men  and  their  sayings, 
and  steep  thyself  once  more  in  the  memory  of  the  days 
of  freedom,  when  thou  wast  wont  to  wander  at  will  through 
the  fields,  the  heart  swelling  with  delight,  and  loudly 
chanting  hymns  to  liberty;  when  thou  enjoyedst  a  day  all 
idleness  from  beginning  to  end — from  the  gay  breezes  of 
morning  to  the  warm  perfumes  of  evening,  lying  under  a 
pear-tree,  careless  of  everthing,  and  bidding  defiance,  in 
thy  mocking  ease,  to  the  tyrants  of  all  kinds  fastened  like 
vultures  to  the  side  of  humanity." 

Paris,  August  20th. — To  leave  solitude  for  the  crowd ; 


Journal,  1 27 

the  green  ways,  and  the  sohtary,  for  the  obstructed  streets 
with  their  clamors,  where  instead  of  a  breeze  circulates  a 
current  of  warm,  tainted  human  breath  ;  to  pass  from  quiet- 
ism to  turbulent  life,  and  from  the  vague  mysteries  of  Na- 
ture to  the  harsh  reality  of  society,  has  ever  been  a  terrible 
change  for  me,  a  return  to  evil  and  misfortune.  As  I  go 
on  my  way,  and  advance  in  the  discernment  of  the  true 
and  false  in  society,  my  inclination  to  live, — not  as  a 
savage  nor  a  misanthrope,  but  as  a  solitary  man  on  the 
confines  of  society,  on  the  borders  of  the  world, — is 
strengthened  and  extended.  The  birds  flutter,  pilfer, 
build  their  nests  about  our  dwellings,  they  are  like 
fellow-citizens  of  tlie  farms  and  hamlets  ;  but  they  fly  in 
the  sky,  which  is  immense  ;  the  hand  of  God  alone  dis- 
tributes and  measures  out  to  them  the  day's  food  ;  they 
build  their  nests  in  the  heart  of  the  thickets,  or  hang 
them  on  the  tops  of  the  trees.  Thus  I  would  wish  to 
live,  hovering  about  society,  and  having  always  behind 
me  a  field  of  liberty,  vast  as  the  heavens.  If  my  faculties 
are  not  yet  formed,  if  it  is  true  that  they  have  not  at- 
tained their  growth,  they  will  develop  only  in  the  open 
air  and  under  a  somewhat  wild  exposure.  My  last 
sojourn  in  the  country  has  confirmed  my  conviction  on 
this  point. 

During  my  six  weeks'  vacation,  I  have  lain  fallow 
in  the  most  complete  inaction.  Scarcely,  to  break  the 
uniformity  of  the  far  niente^  did  I  pursue  some  lazy  read- 
ing, stretched  under  a  tree,  and  more  than  half  my  atten- 
tion distracted  by  a  breeze,  or  a  bird  threading  its  way 
through  the  woods,  by  the  song  of  a  blackbird,  a  skylark,  or 
what  not,  by  all  that  passes  in  the  air  that  is  vague  and  en- 
chanting for  a  man  lying  on  the  fresh  turf,  under  the 
shade  of  a  tree,  in  the  midst  of  a  country  thrilling  with 


128  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

life  and  sunlight.  But  this  repose,  this  accabnie^  had  not 
destroyed  the  play  of  my  faculties  nor  arrested  the  myste- 
rious circulation  of  thought  in  the  most  vital  part  of  my 
soul.  I  was  like  a  man  under  the  spell  of  a  magnetic 
sleep :  his  eyes  are  closed,  his  limbs  relaxed,  all  his  sen- 
ses sealed ;  but,  under  that  veil  which  covers  almost  all 
the  phenomena  of  physical  life,  his  soul  is  much  more 
alive  than  in  a  waking  state  of  natural  activity  ;  it  pierces 
the  thick  darkness,  beyond  which  it  sees  certain  mysteries 
laid  bare,  or  enjoys  the  sweetest  visions  ;  it  communes 
with  apparitions ;  to  it  the  gates  of  a  wonderful  world  are 
opened.  I  tasted  two  pleasures  at  once,  one  of  which 
alone  would  have  sufficed  to  fill  my  being  to  overflowing, 
and  yet  both  found  place  and  expanded  freely  without 
clashing  or  confusion.  I  enjoyed  both  at  once  and  each 
as  distinctly  as  if  I  had  possessed  but  one  ;  no  confusion, 
no  mingling,  no  marring  of  the  vivacity  of  the  one  by  the 
activity  of  the  other.  The  first  consisted  of  the  unspeak- 
able sentiment  of  a  repose  perfect,  continuous,  and  verg- 
ing on  slumber ;  the  second  came  to  me  from  the  pro- 
gressive, harmonized,  slowly-cadenced  movement  of  the 
inmost  faculties  of  my  soul,  which  expanded  in  a  world 
of  dreams  and  thoughts,  which,  I  believe,  was  a  sort  of 
vision — in  vague  and  evanescent  shadows — of  the  most 
secret  beauties  of  Nature,  and  of  her  divine  forces. 
When  the  hour  of  departure  broke  the  charm,  and  I  re- 
sumed the  habitual  sentiment  of  my  being,  I  found  myself 
poor  and  forlorn  as  before  -,  but  by  the  more  animated 
march  of  my  thoughts,  by  a  more  subtile  delicacy  of  sen- 
sation, by  a  marked  dilatation  of  my  moral  and  intellec- 
tual forces,  I  knew  that  my  six  weeks  of  idleness  were 
not  lost,  that  the  flow  of  strange  dreams  which  had  flood- 
ed my  soul  had  uplifted  and  borne  it  to  a  higher  level. 


Journal.  129 

I  came  back  to  society  with  this  joy,  amply  set  off,  how- 
ever, and  almost  deadened  by  the  sadness  of  my  heart, 
which  came  back  heavy  with  regrets  and  languor.  I 
parted  from  the  country  as  from  a  sweetheart,  and  I  con- 
fess that  I  cannot  explain  the  astonishing  resemblance  of 
the  sadness  she  has  left  me,  to  that  of  love. 

22d. — I  have  received  a  letter  from  Onesime ;  as  I 
opened  it,  a  perfume  of  flowers  and  of  the  country  issued 
from  all  its  folds.  At  first,  I  thought  it  enclosed  one  of 
those  breezes  which  flutter  about  all  day  in  the  meadows 
and  gardens  j  but  I  soon  changed  my  mind  when,  on 
turning  the  page,  I  scattered  over  the  floor  blue  and 
yellow  petals,  rose  leaves  and  blades  of  grass.  There 
were  people  in  the  parlor ;  I  blushed,  I  was  confused ;  I 
thought  they  were  about  to  question  me,  perhaps  ridicule 
what  gave  me  so  much  pleasure.  I  should  not  have 
known  what  to  answer,  I  should  have  faltered,  I  should 
have  been  embarrassed  in  my  speech.  And  then,  more- 
over, how  is  it  possible  to  make  foreign  natures  under- 
stand the  value  of  a  blade  of  grass  in  a  letter,  the  charm 
of  this  touching  childishness,  of  this  exquisite  simplicity  ? 
Happily,  no  one  took  notice  ;  they  were  talking ;  I  let  it 
pass  and  made  haste  to  pick  up  my  treasure  by  stealth, 
like  a  thief.  Society,  such  as  it  has  become,  has  so 
altered  men  and  destroyed  in  them  the  native  instincts 
of  the  soul,  that  those  who  have  escaped  the  general 
contagion  and  preserved  in  its  purity  the  simplicity  of 
natural  tastes,  are  forced  to  hide  themselves,  to  steal 
away,  to  envelop  themselves  in  a  sort  of  modesty. 

26//^. — My  soul  shrinks  and  recoils  upon  itself  like 

a  leaf  touched  by  the  cold  ;  it  retires  to  its  own  centre, 

it  has  abandoned  all  the  positions  from  which  it  looked 

out.     After  some  days  of  struggle  against  social  realities, 

6* 


I  JO  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

I  was  obliged  to  fall  back  and  retire  within.  Here  I  am 
circumscribed  and  blockaded  until  my  thought,  swollen 
by  a  new  inundation,  rises  above  the  dike  and  flows 
freely  over  all  its  banks.  I  know  of  few  events  of  my  in- 
ternal life  so  formidable  for  me  as  this  sudden  contraction 
of  my  being  after  extreme  expansion.  In  this  condensa- 
tion, the  most  active  faculties,  the  most  unquiet,  the  most 
restless  elements,  find  themselves  seized  and  condemned 
to  inaction,  but  without  paralysis,  without  decrease  of 
vitality ;  all  their  impetuosity  is  shut  in,  and  under  con- 
straint. Pressed  and  crowded  they  struggle  against 
each  other,  and  all  together  against  their  barrier.  At 
these  times  all  the  feeling  of  life  I  have,  is  reduced  to  a 
deep,  dull  irritation  alternating  with  paroxysms ;  it  is  the 
fermentation  of  so  many  various  elements  becoming  in- 
flamed and  exasperated  by  their  forced  contact,  and 
making  repeated  efforts  to  burst  forth.  All  the  faculties 
which  brought  me  into  communication  with  the  outside, 
the  distant  world — all  those  brilliant  and  faithful  messen- 
gers of  the  soul  which  go  and  come  continually  from  the 
soul  to  Nature  and  from  Nature  to  the  soul — finding 
themselves  pent  within,  I  remain  isolated,  cut  off  from 
all  participation  in  the  universal  life.  I  am  become  like 
an  infirm  man,  deficient  in  all  his  senses,  solitary,  and 
excommunicated  from  Nature. 

September  "jth. — In  conversation  I  pass  for  nothing. 
I  commonly  derive  from  it  only  discomfiture  and  bitter- 
ness. In  conversation  I  compromise  my  inner  life, 
whatever  is  best  in  me.  To  sustain  the  flow  of  talk,  I 
throw  into  it  my  cherished  thoughts,  those  I  love  most 
dearly  and  prize  with  the  greatest  tenderness.  My  timid 
and  faltering  speech  disfigures,  mutilates  them,  throws 
them  into  the  broad  light  of  day  disordered,  confused, 


Journal,  131 

half-clothed.  When  I  withdraw,  I  gather  together  and 
lock  up  my  scattered  treasure,  but  I  put  away  my 
ideals  sorely  handled,  like  fruits  fallen  from  the  tree 
upon  stones. 

<^th. — At  this  moment  there  is  a  mingling  in  my  soul, 
a  mingling  of  bitter  and  sweet,  a  confusion  of  honey  and 
gall,  a  strange  medley.  For  some  days,  my  mind,  still 
so  little  regulated,  has  been  seized  with  a  feverish  rest- 
lessness, which  makes  it  go  and  come  from  pole  to  pole, 
which  will  not  allow  it  to  settle  and  repose  in  the 
centre  of  an  order  of  ideas  or  beliefs,  but  carries  it 
rapidly  from  region  to  region,  and,  in  passing,  holds  it 
suspended  over  all  abysses.  I  taste  a  strange  delight 
in  feeling  my  soul  snatched  up,  like  that  prophet  that  an 
angel  carried  away  by  the  hair,  and  traversing  vast 
regions  with  frightful  rapidity.  But  what  do  I  bring 
back  from  these  wild  v/anderings  ?  Lassitude,  bewilder- 
ment, an  access  of  giddiness,  and  yet,  beneath  all  that, 
a  secret  self-satisfaction  which  takes  pride  in  the  fiery 
voyage,  and  unconsciously  stirs  the  growing  passion  of 
my  soul  for  these  perilous  adventures.  In  the  country, 
also,  in  the  mild  days,  the  ravisher  came  to  take  my 
soul ;  together  they  went  far  away,  but  with  a  more 
measured  flight  and  through  regions  more  serene,  though 
no-  less  vague  and  shifting  :  as  to-day,  my  soul,  on  its 
return,  knew  no  longer  what  to  think  of  things,  but  in 
its  perplexity  there  was  less  of  disturbance,  less  of  un- 
easy pre-occupation. 

19//Z. — O  truth!  appearest  thou  not  at  times  to  me 
like  a  luminous  phantom  behind  a  cloud  ?  But  the  first 
wind  dispels  thee.  Can  it  be  that  thou  art  only  an  illu- 
sion before  the  eye  of  the  soul  ?  Reason  and  faith ! 
When  these  two  words  shall  make  but  one,  the  enigma 


132  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

of  this  world  will  be  solved.  Meanwhile,  what  is  to  be 
done  ?  As  I  write,  the  sky  is  magnificent.  Nature  ex- 
hales fresh  breezes  full  of  life,  the  world  rolls  on  melo- 
diously, and  amid  all  these  harmonies  wanders  a  sad 
and  startled  thing — the  mind  of  man — disturbed  by  all 
this  order,  which  he  comprehends  not. 

"^Tst. — After  all,  what  is  our  business  here  below? 
To  lead  a  useful  life.  That  setded,  what  matter  what 
instrument  God  puts  into  a  man's  hands  to  improve  the 
time,  pen  or  hammer?  To  accept  without  hesitation 
every  situation  to  which  the  power  of  my  soul  or  of  my 
hands  is  adequate — such  is  the  resolution  to  which  my 
soul  clings,  seeing  that  all  takes  flight  and  vanishes 
around  it;  seeing  that  the  earth  crumbles  under  my 
feet.  But  can  I  rely  upon  a  resolution  of  my  soul? 
Who  will  assure  me  of  its  constancy,  after  a  thousand 
fluctuations,  after  a  thousand  projects  formed,  aban- 
doned, re-formed?  I  lose  myself;  my  sluggish  and 
indiflerent  will  breathlessly  pursues  my  soul,  which 
takes  the  wings  of  the  most  delicate  dreams,  of  the 
most  fleeting  illusions.  Such  is  my  life  :  it  is  composed 
of  serious  plans,  which  are  always  changing ;  of  vain 
dreams,  which  are  permanent ;  of  long  intoxications  of 
the  imagination,  and  of  ridiculous  scenes  between  my 
will  and  my  soul,  unfettered  and  swift  of  flight  as  a 
savage ;  and  in  the  quick  and  core  of  my  life,  ever  the 
acute  suffering  or  the  dull  uneasiness,  as  the  disorder 
increases  or  decreases. 

26^.-1  accept  with  a  passive  resignation  the  recoil 
of  the  hopes  I  have  sent  forth.  I  begin  to  care  little 
enough  for  the  course  of  my  external  life  and  for  any 
IDleasure,  more  or  less,  I  may  meet  in  my  path.  When  I 
have  bread  for  my  hunger,  and  water  for  my  thirst,  I, 


Journal,  133 

more  than  any  other,  ought  to  be  content  and  silent. 
Idle  and  altogether  superfluous  in  society,  I  have  no 
right,  in  the  common  distribution,  to  any  but  the  portion 
vigorously  necessary  to  the  support  of  my  life. 

2W1. — The  elements  are  confounded  within  and  with- 
out. An  immense  chaos,  Nature,  men,  science,  the 
universality  of  things  rolls  its  waves  against  my  soul  lost 
in  the  foam  and  roar  like  an  isolated  point,  a  rock  in  the 
midst  of  the  sea  =i^  *  #  #  *  # 
I  sustain  the  shock  of  a  boundless  surge  ;  how  long  shall 
I  hold  firm  ?  If  I  bury  myself  in  your  bosom,  myste- 
rious waves,  will  it  be  with  me  as  with  those  knights  who, 
drawn  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  lakes,  found  marvellous 
palaces  there,  or,  like  the  fisherman  in  the  fable,  in  falling 
into  the  sea,  shall  I  become  a  god  "i 

I  formerly  doubted  myself,  who  am  an  imperceptible 
point.  The  doubt  at  first  confined  to  this  imperceptible 
point,  has  broken  its  barriers,  it  covers  the  world ;  an 
atom  has  expanded  over  the  entire  universe.  I  used  to 
suffer  only  in  myself,  now  I  suffer  in  all  things. 

29//^. — The  germinating  grain  puts  forth  life  in  two 
contrary  directions,  the  plumule  grows  upward,  the  root- 
let downward  :  I  would  like  to  be  the  insect  that  takes 
up  its  quarters  and  lives  in  the  rootlet.  I  would  take 
my  post  at  the  extreme  tip  of  the  roots  and  watch  the 
powerful  action  of  the  pores  drawing  in  life ;  I  would 
observe  the  life  passing  from  the  fruitful  bosom  of  some 
earthy  atom  into  the  pores,  which,  like  so  many  mouths, 
evoke  and  woo  it  by  melodious  calls.  I  would  be  witness 
of  the  ineffable  love  with  which  life  rushes  to  the  arms  of 
the  being  who  invokes  it,  and  of  the  joy  of  that  being.  I 
would  be  present  at  their  embraces. 

October  22d. — For  three  weeks,  I  have  lived  an  outer 


134  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

life,  which  devours  all  my  days,  even  to  the  crumbs  :  a 
revolution  in  my  habits,  a  sudden  transition  from  the 
carelessness  of  dreams  to  the  breathlessness  of  action. 
All  this  stir  of  bustling  life  absorbs  a  certain  portion  of 
my  thought,  but  it  is  a  floating  portion,  that  I  abandon  to 
every  wind,  like  the  stray  folds  of  a  cloak.  I  do  not  feel 
its  loss.  These  thoughts  are  the  waves  that  come  up  on 
the  strand  :  the  land  drinks  of  them,  man  dabbles  in 
them,  the  sea  abandons  them  to  any  who  desire  them. 
Thus  my  life,  on  its  borders,  is  taken  up  with  the  cares 
and  anxieties  of  active  life  ;  but  on  the  broad  surface, 
nothing  touches  it,  no  one  draws  from  it,  its  waves  lose 
nothing  except  through  the  continual  evaporation  of  their 
waters,  breathed  upon  by  an  unknown  power. 

November  2.-7yd. — Two  months  of  action,  of  participa- 
tion in  human  weariness.  But  in  bending  to  my  work, 
in  digging  out  the  furrow  where  I  have  just  sown  the  first 
sweat  of  my  brow,  the  lassitude  I  have  felt  has  been  only 
physical.  My  soul  comes  back  from  its  day's  work  with 
the  freshness  of  an  awakening.  It  is  not  long  since  it 
shuddered  and  fainted  wdien  the  thought  of  an  external 
action  to  be  accomplished  passed  before  it.  If,  at  the 
moment  when  necessity  urged  me  with  its  lash  into  the 
melee  of  men  of  action,  like  those  oriental  soldiers  who 
are  driven  to  battle  with  whips — if,  I  say,  at  that  moment, 
my  soul  had  found  itself  hovering  on  the  brink  of  action, 
it  would  have  recoiled  and  fallen.  Happily,  a  little  be- 
fore this  moment,  it  had  started  on  a  course  which  must 
carry  it  far  from  the  battle-fields  of  action.  This  depar- 
ture was  not  sudden  nor  undesigned  ;  breaths  which  had 
inspired  my  soul  from  time  to  time,  like  the  first  freshness 
of  a  breeze,  had  given  token  of  its  new  direction.  In  due 
time  it  set  out ;  behold  it  out  of  danger.     Joyous  as  cap- 


Journal.  135 

tives  who  with  vigorous  oars  leave  behind  them  a  barbar- 
ous coast,  it  leaps  eagerly  along  its  flight,  it  withdraws 
itself  to  regions  unknown  to  all  and  to  itself,  but  it  is 
sure  to  reach  them,  because  they  attract,  and  an  infallible 
presentiment  of  the  wonders  they  reserve  for  it,  entertains 
it  on  the  way. 

December  lotk. — Of  what  nature  am  I,  then,  that  new 
conditions  against  which  I  can  make  no  preparation,  are 
continually  coming  upon  me,  that  at  each  moment  is  re- 
vealed some  new  infirmity  in  some  quarter  where  I  had 
no  anxiety  ?  To-day  this  poor  imagination  by  which  I  live 
habitually,  whence  flows  all  that  circulating  life  in  me  of 
unknown  joys  and  of  those  hidden  transports  of  which 
nothing  goes  forth  to  be  wasted  on  the  outer  world, — this 
poor  imagination  is  drained.  It  will  be  eight  days  since 
my  inner  life  began  to  diminish,  the  stream  to  fall,  low- 
ered by  so  perceptible  a  decrease  that,  after  only  a  few 
days'  exposure  to  the  sun  of  this  work-a-day  world,  it  has 
become  a  little  thread  of  water.  To-day  I  have  seen  the 
last  drop  vanish. 

I  take  in  its  broadest  sense  the  word  imagination  : 
it  is  for  me  the  name  of  the  inner  life,  the  general  appel- 
lation of  the  finest  faculties  of  the  soul,  of  those  which 
reclothe  tangible  ideas  with  imaginative  adornment,  as 
likewise  of  those  which,  turned  towards  the  infinite,  are 
perpetually  meditating  the  intangible,  and  shaping  the 
invisible  into  images  of  unknown  origin  and  indescribable 
form.  This  talk  is  a  little  metaphysical  and  widely  at 
variance  with  the  known  psychologies ;  but,  for  that 
matter,  I  trouble  myself  little  about  men  and  the  arrange- 
ments they  have  made  of  our  faculties  ;  their  systems, 
which  shackle  me,  I  break,  and,  thus  free,  go  as  far  from 
them  as  possible,  to  reconstruct  a  soul  and  a  world  to  my 
liking. 


136  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

i 
I  certainly  cannot  believe  that  our  most  living  facul- 
ties die  like  a  flickering  torch,  and  that  all  the  interior 
sources  of  inspiration  close  suddenly,  as  if  struck  by  a 
curse.     But  it  is  undeniable  that  the  life  of  the  soul  is 
interrupted,  that  the  stream  of  secret  joys  suspends  its 
course  to  give  passage  to  swarms  of  bitternesses  and  un- 
known desolations.     I  suffer  from  this  terrible  invasion. 
I  listen  within  myself,  and  I  hear  no  more  what  used  to 
I  charm  me.     Various  subtle  murmurings,  undulating  har^ 
/  monies  of  distant  choirs,  reverberations  of  the  secret  songs  I 
I  of  Nature,  all    this   flow  of  gentle  sound    has  ceased." 
'^Like  a  man  who  walks  in  the  night  provided  with  a  torch, 
objects  seemed,  as  I  advanced,  to  take  on  a  brilliancy  at 
once  vivid  and  soft,  and,  in  this  light,  all  forms,  toned  as 
well  as  sharpened,  seemed  to  bathe  as  in  their  native 
element,  and  to  taste  I  know  not  what  delights,  which  ani^ 
mated  their  countenance,  and  gave  to  them  beauties  hith-j 
erto  unseen.     To-day  I  cast  only  a  shadow,  every  form  is! 
opaque  and  struck  with  death.     As  in  a  walk  in  the  night,t 
I  advance  with  the  consciousness  of  my  forlorn  existence,! 
amid  the  lifeless  phantoms  of  all  things. 

My  inner  life  resembles  that  circle  of  the  hell  of  Dante, 

where  a  crowd  of  souls  rush  on  in  the  train  of  a  standard 

borne  rapidly  forward.     The  multitude  of  my  thoughts, 

like  the  crowd  of  shades,  swift,  tumultuous,  silent,  is  borne 

ceaselessly  toward  a  fatal  phantom,  an  undulating  and 

luminous  form,  of  irresistible  attraction,  which  flees  with 

the  swiftness  of  an  uncreated  apparition.     False  guide, 

without  doubt,  for  its  flight  is  too  alluring  not  to  draw  my 

soul  into  some  cruel  snare ;  but,  whatever  may  happen,  -x 

^  I  yield  to  the  lure.     Like  a  child  travelling,  my  mind  > 

}  smiles  incessantly  at  the  beautiful  regions  itsees  within  \ 

/   itself,  and  will  never  see  elsewhere.     I  dwell  with  the  ^ 


h(^ 


-^  JournaL  137 


interior  elements  of  things,  I  climb  the  rays  of  the  stars, 
and  the  current  of  the  streams,  to  the  very  bosom  of  the 
mysteries  of  their  generation.  I  am  admitted  by  Nature 
t(5  the  inner  sanctuary  of  her  sacred  abodes,  to  the  point 
whence  issues  Life  Universal  \  there,  I  detect  the  cause 
of  motion,  and  I  hear  the  first  song  of  created  life  in  all 
its  freshness.  Who  has  not  caught  himself  watching  the 
shadows  of  the  summer  clouds  gliding  over  the  land- 
scape }  As  I  write,  I  am  doing  some  such  thing.  I  see 
moving  over  this  paper  the  shadow  of  my  fancies,  like 
scattered  flakes,  ever  swept  before  the  wind.  Such  is 
the  nature  of  my  thoughts,  and  of  all  my  intellectual 
stores — a  little  floating  vapor  just  ready  to  vanish.  But 
even  as  the  air  delights  in  condensing  the  exhalations 
from  the  waters,  and  in  peopling  itself  with  beautiful 
clouds,  my  imagination  seizes  the  emanations  of  my 
soul,  heaps  them  up,  moulds  them  at  will,  and  lets  them 
drift  along  the  current  of  that  secret  breath  which  per- 
vades all  intelligences.  This  is  the  happiness  inherent 
in  my  nature,  an  ethereal,  evanescent  happiness,  which 
often  melts  under  my  kisses,  and  dissolves  in  my  em- 
braces. Moreover,  neither  my  serenity  nor  my  torment 
is  of  long  duration  \  alas  !  nor  are  my  resolutions  lasting. 
Whatever  of  philosophy  or  of  practical  reason  there  may 
be  in  my  soul,  groans  and  suflers.  Like  a  ship  that  has 
spread  too  much  canvas,  I  hold  a  wild,  blind  course 
through  life,  sustaining  at  every  hour  the  tnost  cruel 
damages. 

In  a  picture,  we  love,  we  admire  the  features  of  the 
unknown  man,  of  the  shepherd,  it  may  be,  dreaming  on 
the  mountain.  He  represents  intelligence  in  the  midst 
of  creation,  the  deep,  sonorous  echo  in  the  centre  of 
melodies,  the  divine  mirror  athwart  the  path  of  the  in- 


138  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

numerable  images  which  Gtod  has  set  in  motion  from  the 
.  uncreated  void,  a  floating  garb  of  symbols  which  we 
h  name  the  Universe.  The  real  personages,  the  shepherd 
ij  and  I,  are  poor  creatures  who  see  the  clouds  floating, 
^=  and  hear  the  wind  whistling  by  mere  instinct,  and  as  a 
,  pastime  of  solitude. 

^  Jaimary  26th,  1835. — I  ^^^^e  acted  my  little  drama 
under  your  eyes ;  you  have  followed  its  changes,  and 
heard  its  noise  with  a  tender  interest  which  has  been  the 
source  of  all  my  courage.  And  yet,  what  did  you  look 
at?  What  one  follows  with  the  eye  on  summer  even- 
ings :  a  winged  insect  that  whirls  and  spins  in  the  air, 
with  a  light  buzzing  of  its  wings.  Like  the  insect,  my 
thought  madly  drives  a  fitful  flight  which  goes  no  whither. 
I  have  acquired  philosophy  enough  to  walk  resolutely  in 
the  practical  life,  and  to  raise  myself  above  certain  attacks 
which  would  formerly  have  overthrown  me.  But  the  con- 
trol of  my  thought  does  not  belong  to  me.  It  has  no 
other  guide  than  an  untiring  instinct  of  flight,  far  from 
the  common  abode,  as  if  liberty  was  to  be  found  in 
escape,  and  truth  at  the  end  of  an  endless  journey. 
Moreover,  notwithstanding  the  smoothing  of  the  ways 
in  my  interior  life,  I  feel  scarcely  any  less  weariness  of 
life ;  for  restlessness  of  thought  is  as  good,  or  as  bad,  as 
uncertainty  of  the  morrow.  Poetry  dwells  no  more  in 
my  soul,  I  no  longer  enjoy  its  familiar  intercourse ;  by 
the  absence  of  a  sweet  burden,  by  the  chilling  of  my 
habits  of  imagination,  I  know  that  she  has  departed,  and 
besides,  I  hear  her  voice  afar  off",  at  a  high  pitch,  but 
already  faint  and  almost  annihilated  by  the  distance. 
Sometimes  I  think  she  calls  me,  having  found  beyond 
the  darkness  a  better  place  than  this ;  for,  to-day,  I  hope 
everything  from  the  side  of  the  impenetrable,  and  some- 


Journal.  139 

times  she  seems  to  be  bidding  me  good-by.  For  the 
rest,  what  matters  it,  if  what  we  call  imagination,  poesy, 
leaves  or  takes  me  ?  That  can  neither  retard  nor  hasten 
the  course  of  my  destiny  j  and  whether  or  not  I  may  have 
foreseen  it  here  below,  I  shall  none  the  less  some  day 
behold  what  is  reserved  for  me.  Ought  I  not  rather, 
ignoring  all  these  anxieties,  to  apply  myself  to  enlarging 
my  positive  knowledge,  and  to  prefer  the  least  luminous 
thread  of  certain  truth,  to  the  vague  glimmers  in  which 
I  am  lost  ?  A  man  who  is  sure  of  any  mathematical 
truth  whatever,  is  more  advanced  in  the  comprehension 
of  the  true,  than  the  most  beautiful  imagination.  He 
has  acquired  an  inviolable  possession  in  the  domain  of 
knowledge,  where  he  can  dwell  to  all  eternity.  The 
poet  is  driven  from  exile  to  exile,  and  will  never  have 
any  certain  abode. 

February  2d. — We  lost  Marie  the  2 2d  of  January, 
at  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening. 

After  the  happiness  of  dying  before  those  one  loves, 
I  know  of  nothing  which  better  indicates  the  favor  of 
heaven  than  to  be  admitted  to  the  pillow  of  a  dying 
friend,  to  follow  as  far  as  one  can  with  him  into  the 
shadow  of  death,  partially  to  enter  into  the  profound 
mystery  in  which  he  vanishes,  to  take  from  his  counte- 
nance faithful  and  incorruptible  impressions  ;  in  short, 
to  gather  a  treasure  of  sad  and  secret  thoughts,  which 
may  last  through  the  longest  life. 

All  this  I  have  seen  only  under  the  representation 
that  the  soul  pictures  to  itself,  as  it  best  can,  of  that 
which  takes  place  far  from  us.  Poor  Marie !  I  have 
imagined  the  spectacle  of  your  end ;  I  have  contem- 
plated eagerly,  through  the  shadows  of  this  terrible 
dream,  all  that  transpired  between  you  and  death;   I 


140  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

have  seen  your  calm  and  peaceful  features,  your  sweet- 
ness and  the  beauty  of  your  soul  yet  visible  upon  your 
lips,  and  undimmed  by  suffering.  This  vision  is  some- 
times disturbed,  and  disappears,  but  it  soon  returns  ;  for, 
swayed  by  a  potent  spell,  I  call  it  back.  In  its  longest 
absences,  it  gives  place  to  another  sight,  unclouded  by 
the  shadows  of  death  :  Marie  appears  to  me  with  vague 
and  indistinct  features,  floats  before  my  imagination, 
and,  without  touching  the  earth,  guides  me  to  the  haunts 
she  loved,  in  which  we  have  so  often  wandered  to- 
gether. 

She  has  vanished  from  the  visible  world  ;  she  be- 
longs to  the  regions  of  thought  j  she  is  accessible  only 
to  that  powerful  faculty  which  rises  from  our  souls  to  the 
spiritual  abodes,  climbs  to  them  secretly  in  the  shadow, 
and  descends  accompanied  by  a  sweet  phantom.  How 
often  have  our  dreams  mounted  together  to  those  dim 
and  obscure  dwellings  which  attracted  us  by  their  mys- 
tery !  How  many  times  have  they  gone  to  knock  lightly 
at  the  gates  of  that  world  of  intelligences  and  pure 
spirits  !  And  now  thou  art  mingled,  absorbed  in  this 
ocean  of  spiritual  life  !  By  the  same  process  as  of  yore, 
my  thought  now  enshrines  thee  in  its  bosom  ;  it  pic- 
tures thee  as  of  the  same  essence  with  those  sweet 
dreams  of  mine  which  used  to  meet  thine  and  together 
seek  the  same  heaven. 

I  try  to  understand  this — to  reconcile  the  thought 
which  seeks  her  on  earth  with  that  which  seeks  her  here 
no  longer.  I  re-form  painfully  the  habits  of  my  imagi- 
nation which  used  to  travel  with  so  much  delight  towards 
the  beloved  wilderness  ;  I  am  forced  at  every  moment  to 
turn  it  from  its  way,  to  put  it  on  the  new  path  it  must 
henceforth  take  ; — strange  and  bitter  confusion  of  two 


Journal,  141 

worlds,  terrible  disturbance  of  the  soul  following  after 
that  soul  which  has  changed  its  abode  !  But  no  ;  I  am 
happy  to  gaze  in  the  direction  where  she  has  vanished, 
to  carry  all  my  communings,  all  my  aspirations,  towards 
the  invisible  world,  which  has  snatched  her  from  us. 
Who  will  make  me  a  sharer  in  the  treasured  thoughts 
gathered  at  the  final  hour  ?  Who  will  admit  me  to  those 
mysteries  in  which  I  would  fain  wrap  myself  forever  ?  I 
am  hungry  for  sorrow,  and  for  that  mournful  knowledge* 


9//^. — The  work  is  finished ;  doubt  no  longer  trou- 
bles j  I  am  convinced.  I  have  again  clothed  with 
mourning  that  charming  scene  in  my  recollections.  The 
sweet  countenance  whose  outlines  trembled  faintly  in  my 
memory, — for  time  and  absence  spread  over  the  most 
cherished  features  a  sort  of  vapor  which  partially  dims 
and  confuses  them, — the  sweet  countenance  has  resumed 
its  place  before  my  eyes ;  but  my  imagination,  like 
death,  has  veiled  it  with  pallor,  has  touched  the  lips  with 
a  dying  rose-tint,  and  closed  the  eyes  forever.  I  have 
broken  the  image  of  its  earthly  existence,  I  have  effaced 
it  from  the  external  world.  Ideas  have  changed  places  ; 
an  actual  life,  in  its  completeness,  has  been  taken  from 
my  soul,  and  I  see  coming,  instead,  the  incorruptible 
images  and  forms  of  the  unknown  world  which  lies  about 
us.  I  press  lovingly  to  my  heart  and  scan  closely  these 
new  apparitions  which  wear  beloved  features.  I  invoke 
Divine  aid  that  I  may  gather  to  my  side  as  many  as  pos- 
sible  of   these   secret  guests    to   whom    grief   hastens 

*  Following  this  fragment,  a  leaf  has  been  detached  from  the 
original  manuscript,  and  several  lines  on  the  top  of  the  next  page 
have  been  effaced. 


142  Maurice  de  Guerin. 

eagerly,  confirmed  in  its  infatuation  by  tliem.  Still,  the 
sense  of  the  terrible  blow  is  not  softened  ;  in  vain  the 
spirit  retires  into  the  shadow  to  sigh  apart  and  give  no 
outward  sign ;  it  is  oppressed  by  the  necessity  of  tears. 
Then,  if  my  eyes  refuse,  I  say,  like  Hippolyte  :  Thou  no 
longer  weepest ;  thou  recallest,  then,  no  more  the  happy 
days  of  a  year  ago  with  Marie  ? 

12th. — Of  which  world  shall  we  dream?  What  se- 
cret beauties  of  Nature  can  attract  and  fix  the  mind 
more  powerfully  than  the  regions  in  which  Marie  has 
vanished  ?  I  know  she  is  there — that  the  shadows  of 
the  world  of  spirits  conceal  her  from  us.  How  attrac- 
tive have  these  shadows  become,  and  what  a  charm  for 
me  in  attempting  the  approaches  to  this  unknown  world ! 
I  advance  ;  I  imagine,  as  I  can,  the  abode  of  the  pure 
spirit ;  I  strive  to  figure  to  myself  a  soul  restored  to  its 
element,  the  secrets  of  its  new  life,  and  all  the  details  of 
its  immortal  condition.  The  imagination,  carrying  its 
earthly  habits  into  its  dreams,  clothes  the  beloved  spirit 
in  a  form,  and  I  see  Marie  with  the  features  of  this 
world  renewed  in  heaven.  But  often,  in  the  very  crea- 
tion of  these  sweet  phantoms,  grief,  dispelled  for  a  mo- 
ment, revives  j  it  rushes  upon  me  from  the  midst  of  the 
most  soothing  visions. — She  has  become,  then,  only  a 
thought,  I  say  to  myself ;  she  is,  then,  accessible  only  to 
the  dreams  of  my  soul !  I  resign  myself  reluctantly  to 
the  heavy,  human  sadness  of  this  idea.  Sometimes  I 
escape  from  it  by  beginning  again  the  pilgrimage  of 
memories.  The  light  and  noiseless  steps  of  my  imagi- 
nation tread  again  the  loved  paths.  Like  Paul,  wander- 
ing in  his  island,  I  return,  led  by  an  inevitable  attrac- 
tion, to  the  scene  of  the  shipwreck. — Some  days  ago,  I 
found,  in  a  library,  when  I  was  alone,  a  book  from  which 


JournalCA^     ^-  143 


we  had  read  in  some  of  our  long  social  evenings.  I 
opened  it.  How  express  what  was  suggested  by  it, 
and  the  vividness  of  the  memories  which  slumbered 
in  those  lines,  as  in  furrows  ?  How  many  tears  I 
shed  over  this  good  Collin  d'Harleville,  so  gay,  so 
charming !  Thus  everything  is  turned  to  mourning. 
Return,  all  ye  memories,  sweet  emanations  of  the 
past,  shadows  of  what  has  vanished,  come  back  into  my 
soul,  as,  at  nightfall,  the  little  birds  and  the  bees,  which 
have  wandered  far  over  the  fields,  fly  back  and  gather  to 
their  haunts.  Return  all ;  night  has  fallen. — Thus  I 
give  relief  to  the  intense  regrets  which  no  consolation 
may  dare  to  approach.  I  surround  them  v/ith  this  mur- 
muring multitude  of  memories.  They  listen  to  their 
mingled  voices,  and  study  their  features,  varied  by  a 
thousand  shades  of  meaning ;  the  tumultuous  flow  of 
painful  thoughts  by  degrees  slackens,  and  for  a  time 
subsides,  so  far  as  to  become  a  languid  stream  of  melan- 
choly. 

March  24//^. — Formerly  my  grief  dissolved  in  tears  ; 
it  has  become  barren.  The  bitter  waves  held  in  solution 
some  drops  of  balm  ;  to-day,  the  pure  liquid  leaves  me 
no  sweet  deposit,  to  sip  with  secret  lingering. 

I  used  to  picture  the  soft  and  tender  gleams  of  twi- 
light to  be  sweet  and  beneficent  particles  deposited  by 
the  stream  of  burning  light  which  had  just  flooded  the 
heavens.  And  with  a  profound  delight  I  used  to  watch 
the  sky  deepening  into  that  ethereal  yellow  whose  de- 
licious melancholy  gave  it  an  air  of  repose.  What 
passed  at  sunset  I  used  to  trace  in  myself  at  the  same 
hour,  and  the  evening  and  I  sank  to  sleep  with  the  same 
soothing  of  grief 

O  quieting  sweetness  of  these  tranquil  pageants,  sym- 


144  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

pathies  of  my  soul  with  the  spirit  of  natural  scenery, 
whither  have  ye  fled  ?  I  am  alone.  I  no  longer  feel  nor 
experience  anything  but  my  life.  The  sharpness  of  an 
existence  profoundly  perturbed  by  a  thousand  internal 
poisons — such  is  the  sole  flavor  of  my  days. 

2']th. — I  know  well  that,  with  resolution  and  effort, 
I  might  succeed  in  moulding  my  mind  to  a  severe  logic, 
to  a  certain  regular  management  of  my  faculties,  to  the 
consecutive  study  of  useful  truths.  But  I  have  received 
so  little  power  of  deduction,  so  little  method  and  logical 
comprehension,  that  it  will  always  be  a  feeble  and  sickly 
labor. 

Calmness  in  the  thoughts  indicates  the  force  of  the 
intellect.  But  all  my  efforts  are  only  creations  without  re- 
sult, convulsive,  breaking  off  abruptly  at  every  minute,  like 
the  speech  of  a  madman.  I  lose  myself;  a  direful  dis- 
turbance unsettles  my  brain ;  the  vivacity  of  certain  ideas 
intoxicates  it ;  confused  with  I  know  not  what  imagin- 
ings, it  falls  to  the  ground.  But  of  what  use  is  com- 
plaint? If  I  were  a  laborer,  perhaps  I  should  accuse 
the  weakness  of  my  arms,  and  the  rapid  exhaustion  of 
my  breath.  I  have  never  in  my  life  turned  up  a  clod, 
and  I  am  easy  on  that  score.  If,  limiting  the  labor  of 
my  intellect  to  what  my  condition  requires,  I  had  not 
put  its  strength  to  full  proof,  I  should  be  easy  in  that 
quarter  also.  But  it  is  done  ;  the  shortest  way  is  to 
take  comfort.  Why  not  also  reascend  the  current  of 
habit,  and  thus  reenter  into  the  primitive  calm  ?  Let 
me  forever  close  the  outlet,  foolishly  opened  to  the  secret 
waves  within  my  soul !  Let  them  sleep  there !  These 
waves — they  are  only  a  few  drops;  surely  I  need  not 
fear  their  storms. 

If  I  have  still  some  steps  to  take  here  below,  I  would 


Journal,  145 

like  to  take  them  in  quiet.  I  know  neither  whence  I  am, 
nor  whither  I  am  going.  I  must  at  least  walk  tranquilly 
in  the  peace  of  an  ignorance  which  will  not  long  wait  to 
be  enlightened.  True  wisdom  consists  in  enduring  what 
cannot  last. 

There  is  more  strength  and  beauty  in  the  well-kept 
secret  of  oneself  and  one's  thoughts,  than  in  the  unfold- 
ing of  a  whole  heaven  that  one  may  have  within.  Thus 
was  it  with  Marie  ;  the  wealth  and  sweetness  of  her  soul 
revealed  themselves  only  by  the  charm  of  her  words,  and 
the  peaceful  enchantment  which  her  existence  shed  about 
her.  It  is  not  that  I  am  discouraged.  Although  I  am 
still  subject  to  certain  returns  of  this  old  infirmity,  I 
have  subdued  it  so  far  that  it  no  longer  impedes  the  posi- 
tive progress  of  my  life.  The  nature  of  my  intellect, 
eager  and  restless,  and  in  no  way  gifted  for  the  strong 
and  severe  operations  of  reasoning,  forbids  all  hope  of 
a  suitable  progress  in  the  philosophy  of  this  world.  But 
this  class  of  investigation  taken  away,  I  see  nothing 
worthy  an  effort  of  thought.  Consequently,  when  I 
shall  have  acquired  enough  ordinary  knowledge  to  im- 
part, during  my  life,  to  little  boys,  I  must  be  content. 
I  shall  then  have  my  share  of  knowledge.  This  is  a 
very  contracted  and  small  ambition.  But  for  a  man 
like  me,  who  has  not  in  his  heart  energy  enough  to  pro- 
duce a  simple  will-o'-the-wisp  of  passion,  and  who,  in  the 
matter  of  intellect,  has  just  enough  to  cause  an  unproduc- 
tive excitement,  is  not  the  little,  the  best, — that  little  which 
suffices  to  relieve  from  want  his  material  life  ?  And  for 
the  rest,  one  may  set  about  canvassing  men  and  things 
leisurely,  contentedly,  with  a  little  dreaming,  if  one 
wishes,  but  with  the  consciousness  of  a  profound  igno- 
rance of  the  impenetrable  destiny  which  impels  us. 
7 


146  Maurice  de  Gucrin, 

April  yl. — The  moral  expanse  which  my  life  em- 
braces, is  like  a  desert  under  a  colorless,  immovable 
sky,  without  variation  of  seasons.  Its  temperature  is 
sufficiently  warm  to  have  induced  a  certain  fermentation 
in  the  fertile  soil :  but,  as  it  preserves  eternally  the  same 
degree  of  temperature,  the  vital  sap,  excited  and  warmed 
to  a  corresponding  point,  can  mount  no  further,  and  finds 
itself  likewise  forced  to  ferment  without  fruit  and  without 
rest,  like  the  water  which  bubbles  incessantly,  without 
raising  or  lowering  its  murmur,  by  the  constant  heat  of 
a  small  fire.  The  result  for  me  is  a  continued,  subtle, 
and  obstinate  suffering.  Eager,  restless,  seeing  imper- 
fectly, my  soul  is  touched  by  all  the  ills  which  a  youth, 
never  destined  to  pass  into  manhood,  is  sure  to  engender. 
I  grow  old,  and  exhaust  myself  in  transports  of  soul  so 
ordinary,  in  passions  of  intellect  so  paltry,  all  that  stirs 
in  me  makes  so  little  progress,  and  what  cannot  move 
reveals  itself  so  slov4y,  that  better  a  hu^idred  times  I 
had  received  a  mind  blind  and  paralytic.  My  malady, 
at  first  quite  confined,  has  gained  rapidly.  Like  a  dis- 
ease which  spreads  in  the  blood,  to-day  it  appears  every- 
where, and  under  the  strangest  developments.  My  head 
is  parching.  Like  a  tree  which  has  lived  ife  life,  I  feel 
as  though  every  passing  wind  were  blowing  through  dead 
branches  in  my  top.  Work  is  insupportable  to  me,  or 
rather  impossible.  Mental  application  begets  in  me,  not 
sleep,  but  an  irritable  and  nervous  disgust,  which  carries 
me,  I  know  not  whither,  into  the  streets  and  public  places. 
The  spring,  whose  blessings  used  every  year  to  seek  me 
in  my  haunts,  and  charm  me  with  gradual  and  stealthy 
approaches,  this  year,  overpowers  me  with  a  load  of  sud- 
den heat.  Life  descends  not  from  the  sky  in  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  nights,  nor  is  it  dispensed  in  the  drops  of  the 


Journal,  147 

showers,  nor  diffused  and  held  in  sokition  through  the 
wide  expanse  of  the  air;  it  falls  from  on  high  like  a 
weight. 

I  wish  something  would  happen,  to  take  me  out  of 
the  position  in  which  I  am.  If  I  were  free,  I  would  em- 
bark for  some  country  where  I  should  be  obliged  to  form 
new  habits. 

Wi. — My  brain  is  dry.  The  pain  I  suffer  in  my 
head  is  half  moral,  half  physical.  Some  days  I  feel  a 
dull  pain,  as  if  the  nerves  were  knotting  themselves 
with  remorseless  contractions.  Excess  of  cold  or  heat, 
weariness,  certain  movements  of  the  head,  irritation  of 
mind,  contribute  to  this  feeling.  At  such  times,  intel- 
lection ceases.  A  strange  stupor  seizes  me,  I  remain 
motionless,  feeling  nothing  but  the  heavy,  overwhelm- 
ing fixedness  of  life,  (which  seems  to  halt  in  a  state  of 
inexplicable  misery,)  and  the  fluttering  of  an  artery  in 
that  part  of  my  head. 

30//^. — When  suffering  has  departed,  and  you  are 
left  with  your  pale,  enfeebled  life,  still  trusting,  however, 
and  tasting  a  grateful  calm,  as  the  last  twinges  of  pain 
are  hushed,  the  most  self-contained  soul  has  a  yearning 
for  conversation,  prolonged,  rambling  in  topic,  and  min- 
gled both  with  painful  memories  and  the  thousand,  smiling 
projects  of  hope.  The  first  gleam  of  comfort  which 
dawns  upon  the  life,  penetrates,  laden  with  soothing 
dreams,  and  soft,  vague  images,  like  so  many  atoms, 
floating  in  its  radiant  bosom.  This  state  is  dearer  to 
the  soul  than  health..  At  these  moments,  from  many  a 
nook  in  my  soul,  as  in  the  peaceful  fields,  beneath  a 
grayish  sky,  when  the  clouds  are  still,  rise  faint  mur- 
murs, tokens  of  the  life  which  returns  from  afar.  These 
murmurs  are  produced  by  my  thoughts,  which,  issuing 


148  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

from  their  painful  torpor,  make  a  light  movement  of 
timid  joy,  and  begin  a  discourse  full  of  memories  or 
hopes.  At  other  times,  slower  to  waken,  I  hear  within 
me,  during  these  hours  of  calm,  only  muffled  and  in- 
frequent rustlings,  as  when,  among  the  high  branches 
of  a  forest,  a  flock  of  birds  are  going  to  sleep.  To-day, 
relieved  from  all  sense  of  opiDression,  my  thoughts  talk 
connectedly  and  calmly  of  sorrows  endured  and  over- 
come. They  await  life,  the  future,  the  arrival  of  the 
successive  mysteries  of  existence,  fortifying  each  other 
by  the  eloquence  of  private  communings,  or,  hushed  at 
intervals,  they  listen  to  the  bubbling  flow  of  that  inner 
philosophy  which,  like  those  streams  which  used  to  pour 
through  the  cloisters,  courses  under  the  surface  of  some 
lives. 

The  greater  part  of  those  faculties  which  constitute 
strength  of  mind,  are  either  wanting  in  me,  or  exist  only 
in  the  germ,  as  the  dead  or  unproductive  nodes  on  trees 
mark  where  branches  should  put  forth.  To  classify,  to 
compare,  to  draw  conclusions,  arc  for  me  operations  of 
such  moment,  consuming  so  rapidly  the  forces  of  my 
intellect,  that,  even  if  all  original  impulse  of  mind  does 
not  thereby  come  to  naught,  the  power  which  remains 
for  it  is  rendered  nearly  useless.  When  I  wish  to  con- 
nect one  truth  with  another,  I  am  like  a  man  who, 
with  a  half-paralyzed  arm,  exerts  himself  to  fasten  two 
things  together :  the  arm  rises  with  great  difficulty,  hesi- 
tates, trembles,  and  always  misses  its  mark.  Any  quan- 
tity of  causes,  in  my  internal  and  external  nature,  early 
inclined  me  to  introspection.  My  own  soul  v/as  my  first 
horizon.  Long,  long  have  I  been  studying  it.  I  see 
ascending  from  the  depth  of  my  being,  vapors  which 
rise  from  it,  as  from  a  deep  valley,  and  ^vhich  assume 


Journal,  149 

form  only  at  the  breath  of  chance  j  indescribable  phan- 
toms, which  make  their  ascent  slowly  and  without  cessa- 
tion. That  powerful  fascination  exercised  over  the  soul's 
vision,  as  over  the  bodily  organs  of  sight,  by  the  monoto- 
nous and  uninterrupted  passage  of  any  trifling  thing  that 
stirs,  possesses  me,  and  does  not  allow  my  eyes  to  turn 
one  moment  from  their  pageant. 

I  get  my  living  by  the  help  of  the  little  Latin  which 
the  college  put  into  my  head,  and  which  has  somehow 
survived  there.  The  routine  of  the  recitations,  a  variety 
of  tasks,  occupy  the  greater  part  of  my  day.  Absorption 
in  material  cares  occasions  me  great  loss ;  the  stream 
of  my  life  runs  to  waste  in  the  sands.  I  am  left  almost 
with  no  reserved  force,  in  this  immense  usurpation,  by 
the  cares  of  daily  subsistence,  of  the  time  due  to  thought, 
and  I  foresee  that  in  my  life  I  shall  always  be  obliged 
to  cast  this  divine  part  of  me  as  a  prey  to  cruel  neces- 
sity. I  keep  telling  myself,  indeed,  that  the  moment 
will  come,  when  we  shall  begin  to  think  in  the  assured 
calm  of  eternity ;  but  from  now  until  then,  the  rule  must 
be  to  suffer,  to  waste  oneself  in  cares  for  the  sake  of 
future  gains ;  to  deprive  the  mind  of  much,  in  order  to 
buy  for  it  a  position  among  men,  (God  save  the  mark ! 
I  might  better  call  them  strangers,)  a  position  whose 
activity  is,  in  a  manner,  insupportable,  whose  level  is 
disheartening ;  this  is  a  great  agony  of  soul,  which  re- 
verses strangely  the  meaning  of  that  word,  life. 

May  "jth. — You  suffer  to-day  from  the  unexpressed 
sense  of  poetry  which  fills  your  being.  This  suffering 
is  terrible,  but  so  beautiful !  Be  comforted  by  the  noble 
and  rare  nature  of  your  tortures  :  there  are  so  many  men 
who  suffer  as  much  as  you  from  positive  miseries !  Your 
grief  is  of  a  privileged  sort ;  what  more  would  you  have 
here  below  ? 


ijo  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

That  which  every  man  of  a  certain  nature,  rather 
lonely  than  superior,  guards  with  the  utmost  vigilance, 
is  the  secret  of  his  soul,  and  of  the  inmost  habits  of  his 
thought.     I  love  that  god  Harpocrates,  with  finger  on 

lip. 

i^th. — Who  can  call  himself  sheltered,  if  he  be  not 
upon  some  height,  and  that  the  most  absolute  that  he 
can  climb  ?  For  some  time  have  I  been  looking  toward 
those  temples  of  serene  wisdom  which  ancient  philosophy 
has  reared  on  very  high  summits,  and  to  which  only  a 
small  number  attained.  If  I  could  but  win  those  heights  ! 
When  shall  I  be  at  peace  ?  Formerly,  the  gods,  wishing 
to  reward -the  virtue  of  certain  mortals,  caused  to  spring 
up  about  them  a  vegetable  nature,  which,  as  it  grew,  ab- 
sorbed in  its  embrace  their  aged  bodies,  and  substituted 
for  their  life,  worn  out  by  extreme  age,  the  strong  and 
silent  life,  which  holds  sway  under  the  bark  of  the  oak. 
These  mortals  having  become  motionless,  rested,  except 
as  the  wind  stirred  their  branching  tops.  Is  not  this  the 
sage,  and  his  calm?  Does  he  not,  after  a  long  time, 
assume  this  metamorphosis  of  the  few  men  who  were  be- 
loved by  the  gods  ?  To  subsist  by  a  strength  chosen  by 
oneself  from  the  elements,  to  be  enveloped  in  it,  to  ap- 
pear to  men  firmly  rooted,  and  stolidly  indifferent,  like 
the  great  trunks  of  certain  trees  that  one  admires  in  the 
forests,  haply  to  utter  only  such  vague  but  deep  sounds  as 
those  of  some  tufted  tree-tops,  which  imitate  the  murmurs 
of  the  sea — this  is  a  condition  of  life  which  seems  to  me 
worthy  of  effort,  and  well  suited  to  oppose  against  men 
and  the  fortune  of  the  day. 

J^une  4th. — Why  am  I  saddened  to  such  a  degree, 
by  the  sight  of  indifferent  productions  ?  I  never  chance 
to  open  a  book  of  the  class  of  that  which  we  looked 


Journal.  151 

through  yesterday,  without  bringing  away  from  it  pain- 
ful thoughts,  and  a  depressed  imagination.  Is  it  a  sor- 
rowful pity  for  this  spectacle — one  of  the  saddest  that  I 
know — of  impotent  vanity  ?  or  is  it  rather  consciousness, 
and  a  recoil  upon,  myself?  However  it  may  be,  what 
matter  ?  The  beauty  of  human  life  does  not  consist  in 
the  strivings  of  the  intellect.  There  must  be  great  medi- 
ocrity of  soul,  to  be  unable  to  endure  that  of  the  mind. 
I  understand  all  that,  and  yet  languish  in  making  weak 
attempts.  My  God,  what  moral  education  is  given  now- 
a-days  ?  I  am  twenty-five  years  old,  of  v/hich  ten  were 
passed  in  the  schools,  and  I  have  not  yet  opened  the 
rudiments  of  interior  strength,  and  of  the  culture  of  the 
moral  sense  !  Never  has  a  word  been  uttered  to  me  of 
the  greatness  of  the  soul.  It  was  only  yesterday,  that, 
an  old  child,  I  began  to  have  an  insight  into  man,  but 
at  a  vast  distance,  and  upon  those  serene  heights  which 
are  hardly  attainable  by  a  foot  already  feeble.  With  an 
inveterate  deficiency,  and  all  impotent  from  lamentable 
habits  of  thought,  I  drag  myself  along,  and  mark  my  way 
with  suffering.  But  yet  I  understand,  yet  I  see,  and  if 
I  do  not  attain  to  the  moral  beauty  of  my  days,  I  shall, 
at  least,  die  with  my  eyes  fixed  upon  it.  There  is,  how- 
ever, in  me  a  very  grievous  sign :  it  is,  that  each  day  I 
find  myself  hardly  in  advance  of  the  actions  of  the  day 
before,  and  that  my  soul  seems  to  remain  at  the  level  of 
the  same  actions,  actions  already  remote  in  the  past. 
My  mind,  on  the  contrary,  soon  sees  all  its  performances 
growing  old.  What  happiness  to  surmount  one's  past, 
and  what  joy  there  is  in  being  able  to  disdain  oneself 
from  day  to  day  in  one's  actions  !  What  a  destiny,  if  I 
am  to  remain  coeternal  with  myself  in  the  moral  state 
which  I  occupy  at  this  moment ! 


152  Maurice  de  Guerin, 

^th. — My  God,  how  wearisome  is  life  !  Not  in  its 
accidents — a  little  philosophy  suffices  for  that ;  but  in 
itself,  in  its  essence,  aside  from  all  phenomena.  I  in- 
crease in  years,  my  mind  lets  drop  in  its  path  a  thousand 
spoils,  ties  are  severed,  prejudices  are  dethroned,  I  be- 
gin to  show  my  head  above  the  waves ;  but  existence 
itself  remains  entangled :  always  the  same  painful  point 
marking  the  centre  of  the  circumference.  Is  there  any 
philosophy,  are  there  any  rules  which  apply  to  this  evil  ? 
I  know  less  and  less  of  this  depth  of  life,  and  what  one 
must  do  in  it.  O,  philosophy  of  the  Porch,  instituted 
to  war  against  grief  by  strength  and  steadiness  of  soul, 
thou  knewest  how  to  oppose  life  only  with  death,  and  we 
have  advanced  no  further  than  thou ! 

i2t/i. — I  do  not  commit  my  wicked  actions  impetu- 
ously. There  are  in  the  depth  of  my  nature,  I  know 
not  what  waters,  dead  and  deadly,  like  that  deep  pond 
in  which  perished  the  poet  Stenio. 

22d. — What  makes  me,  at  times,  despair  of  myself, 
is  the  intensity  of  my  suffering  on  slight  grounds,  and 
the  exercise,  always  misjudged  and  blind,  of  my  moral 
forces.  I  use,  sometimes,  to  roll  grains  of  sand,  an 
energy  capable  of  forcing  a  rock  to  the  summit  of  a 
mountain.  I  could  bear  enormous  burdens,  better  than 
this  light  and  almost  intangible  dust  which  clings  to  me. 
I  die  daily  in  secret ;  my  life  flows  out  by  invisible  pin- 
pricks. I  was  told,  not  long  ago,  that  a  contempt  for 
men  would  lead  me  far;  yes,  especially  if  bitterness 
mingle  with  it.  My  surroundings  weary  me ;  I  know 
not  where  I  would  like  to  live,  nor  in  what  profession ; 
but  I  detest  mine,  which  spoils  me,  and  makes  me  miser- 
able. It  makes  me  part  company,  at  every  moment, 
with  the  little  philosophy  that  I  have  gained  in  free  and 


Journal,  1 1^'}^ 

thoughtful  hours ;  it  irritates  me  against  men  who  seem 
yet  children.  How  I  hate  myself  in  these  miseries,  and 
what  violent  longings  take  possession  of  me  to  spring 
upon  a  free  shore,  spurning  with  my  foot  the  detested 
bark  which  has  borne  my  burden  ! 

July  1 1//;.— Which  is  the  true  God?  The  God  of 
cities,  or  the  God  of  the  deserts  ?  To  which  shall  I  turn  ? 
Tastes  long  fostered,  impulses  of  the  heart,  the  accidents 
of  life,  decide  the  choice.  We  bear  within  us  a  thousand 
fatalities.  What  do  we  know  of  what  urges  us  on,  and 
which  is  the  best  among  all  these  things  ?  The  dweller 
in  cities  ridicules  in  secret  the  lonely  dreams  of  the 
solitary ;  the  latter  glories  in  his  life  of  isolation,  like  the 
islands  of  the  great  ocean,  far  from  continents,  and  washed 
by  waves  unknown.  The  most  to  be  pitied  are  those 
who,  tossed  between  these  two  contradictions,  stretch 
out  their  arms  towards  both. 

October  iT^tk. — I  have  been  travelling.  I  know  not 
what  impulse  of  destiny  bore  me  along  the  banks  of  the 
river  to  the  sea.  I  saw  all  along  this  river  plains,  where 
Nature  is  rich  and  gay,  royal  and  ancient  dwellings, 
scored  with  memories  which  have  their  place  in  the  sad 
legend  of  humanity,  numerous  cities,  and,  at  the  end,  the 
roaring  ocean.  Thence  I  went  back  into  the  interior,  to 
the  land  of  great  forests,  where  the  noises  of  another 
vast  plain  abound  unceasingly.  I  experienced  fatigues, 
which  I  shall  enjoy  long  and  vividly  in  the  retrospect, 
in  crossing  the  great  open  plains,  in  scaling  horizon  after 
horizon,  revelling  in  space,  and  obtaining  many  times 
during  the  day  those  impressions  which  spring  up  from 
every  quarter,  in  passing  through  new  stretches  of  coun- 
try, and  swarm  around  and  overpower  the  traveller. 
The  stream  of  travel  is  very  sweet.  *  *  *  Oh  !  who 
shall  set  me  adrift  upon  this  Nile  ?     *    *     Jft-A^^^^^^ii. 


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Beethoven's    Letters,    1790-1826.      From 

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With  a  portrait  and  facsimile.  2  vols.,  12mo.  Cloth,  gilt 
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In  this  collection  of  his  private  correspondence  we  liave  an  inte- 
rior view  of  tlie  great  composer— showing  us  what  he  was,  what  he 
did,  what  lie  suffered,  and  what  was  the  point  of  view  from  which 
he  surveyed  art  and  life.  Beethoven,  in  music,  is  quite  as  great  a 
name  as  Milton's  in  poetry  ;  and  among  the  thousands  who  have 
been  charmed,  thrilled  and  exalted  by  his  wonderful  melodies,  and 
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Transcript. 

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the  secret  of  a  bird  "Singing  of  summer  with  full-throated  Ease.— 
G.  H.  Levees,  in  Fortnightly  lieview. 

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listening  to  his  grand  compositions— iJos^on-  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 


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give  it  a  place  among  the  standard  works  of  the  day.'' — Pullishers' 
Circular. 

Skirmishing.     By  the  Author  of  "Who 

Breaks — Pays,"  etc.     1  vol.,  16mo.     Price,  $1.26. 

"Every  page  tells:  there  is  no  book-making  about  it — no  attempt  to 
fill  chapters  with  appropriate  affections.  Eacli  sentence  is  written  care- 
fully, and  the  result  is  that  we  have  a  real  wnik  of  art,  such  as  the 
weary  critic  has  seldom  the  pleasure  of  meeting  with." — I'he  London 
Header. 

Fanchon  the  Cricket.      From  the  French 

of  George  Sand.     By  M.  M.  Hays.     1  vol.,  ICmo.    Price 

50  cents. 

"  An  acknowledged  masterpiece,  read  and  admired  in  every  country 
in  Christendom." — j^eto  York  Oommercial  Advertitser. 

Human    Follies.     By  Jules  de  Noriac. 

Translated  from  the  16th  Paris  edition  by  George  Marlow. 

1  vol.,  16mo.     Price,  50  cents. 

"One  of  the  most  readable  things  of  the  day,— is  a  good  illustration 
of  the  French  way  of  teaching  common  sense.  Sixteenth  Paris  edition, 
—this  is  a  sufficient  comment  on  the  ability  of  the  Author."— i?(?sfe>» 
Post. 

The    Romance   of  a  Poor   Young  Man. 

From  the  French  of  Octave  Feuillet.     By  Henry  J.  Mac- 
DONALD.     1  vol.,  iCrao.    Pricc,  $1.25. 

The  Romance  of  the  Mummy.     From  the 

French   of  Theophile   Gautier»     By  Mrs.  Anne  T.  Wood. 
1  vol.,  16mo.     Price,  50  cents. 


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